Ruins

I can’t help but wonder what my experience in Guatemala would be if I lived in Antigua. The original capital of Guatemala, this quaint town is full of energy, spirit, and internationalism. Brian and I went to explore the quiet air of the town last week. Its immediate charm, cobblestone streets, plaster-covered buildings, and Spanish tile roofs captured our attention. But more than everything, the mysteries and intrigues of this World Heritage Site attracted me.

Destroyed several times throughout its early history, Antigua still teems with relics of its governmental and religious centers. Walking down the narrow cobblestone streets ruin after ruin of ancient churches filled our eyes. The tall arched roofs now fallen in, these majestic buildings seem perfect for ghosts, haunted houses, and Halloween mysteries. We walked through the aching buildings, noting plants taking over the intricate structures. Into the crypt we walked to discover remains of priests, nuns, and monks, smoke-blackened crucifixes, and hollow empty rooms lit by singular windows overhead.

Santo Domingo stood out most for us both. This building belonged to the Dominican friars, who once belonged to the most opulent monastery in the town. Destroyed largely in the 1700’s, the crippled building was restored into Antigua’s most opulent hotel. The building has been transformed into hidden corridors filled with religious relics, balconies blessing hotel rooms, five-star restaurants ringed with flowering plants and all this incorporating the natural and cultural aspects of the ancient monastery.

We paid $6.00 each to explore the ruins on-site. Both of us imagined the religious finery that must have blessed these buildings. We pictured the arches towering over the chapel and soaked in the magnificent view of Volcan de Agua peaking out from behind the clouds. The ruins of the monastery remain a virtual maze of broken columns, dilapidated buildings, archaeological excavations, and museums featuring colonial and Mesoamerican art. We left awed by the time and space warp into this rich monastery and hotel. “Someday, if we ever want to return to Guatemala, we’ve got to stay here,” Brian told me. I agree completely.

The history and culture, the Guatemalan, Spanish, and international ambiance, and the beautiful mix of Spanish architecture blending nature with culture entranced me. I loved the interior patios that allow the occupant to live harmoniously with natural elements. We were fascinated by the rich, Antiguan coffee and chocolate available in various cafes. In the evening, after delicious meals of Guatemalan, Peruvian, and other global cuisines, we enjoyed listening to a local band pound out Andean rhythms. It sent me to Ecuador while reminding me of my location in Central America.

What would it be like to live in Antigua? To join in the ex-pat community. To constantly be surrounded by art, age, and beauty. Imagine what it would be like to walk everywhere and anywhere. To feel the ancient architecture soak into my bones. What would it be like to live in such a beautiful part of Guatemala? I can only imagine.

Joining of Sounds

Blessings and gifts emerge in Tikal in a myriad of ways. This morning, sitting quietly in the Great Plaza, what seemed like hundreds of birds began calling overheard. I watched as pairs of parrots swooped elegantly through the sky calling in their loud, melodramatic voices. The oropendula's voice, which sounds like a great bell or water dropping echoes from the trees. Behind me came the crackling call of the royal toucan while other toucans cackled in the trees. The air was still, cool, and completely engulfed by these sounds.

In the afternoon the howler monkeys began their gravelly whoops through the trees while spider monkeys sought hidden fruits above my head. I watched as a new family of howler monkeys taught the babies to swing madly from branch to branch. They encouraged the young ones to follow them with softer hoots and calls.

To add to the brilliance of the dynamic Plaza, groups of native Maya, the descendants of the ancient Maya who once ruled Tikal swarmed into the park. They examined the buildings, talking softly in their native languages, as they looked at their past.

Out of the woods came a group of men carrying a roughly formed harp, guitar, and violin. They had just returned from a ceremony in Mundo Perdido and sat next to me to play. We solemnly greeted each other and talked about the magnificence of Tikal. The older man, in a white cowboy hat began tuning his harp and the other string players joined in. Finally, as though the three were mentally attuned to each other, they began to play. First the harp would strike its cords, then the guitar would begin to play, the violin added the water-like joining of the three instruments. Finally, a man began to beat the base of the harp to create the deep rhythm of a drum.

The music drew everyone in the Plaza to the men. People stood entranced by the simple Mayan tunes that flowed from the men. I watched, fascinated at this cultural encounter. What joy fillied me. What awe I felt at the beautiful joining of sounds from the day. What peace to be in such a magnificent place, this tropical haven in Guatemala. How grateful I am to know Tikal.

Carlos Peña – Latin American Idol

On October 1, 2007, Guatemala City greeted home a hero. Carlos Peña, recently named this year’s Latin American singing Idol, returned to his motherland, Guatemala. Crowds of excited Guatemalans lined the streets, bouquets of white and blue balloons clutched in their hands. It was as if Peña had saved Guatemala from a terrible fate the way people were signing, cheering, and demonstrating such profound patriotism in the midst of their singing and dancing hero. Guatemala was back on the map! Carlos Peña had saved it from being just another Central American country with a violent past to being the Central American country with the best singer/dancer in all of Latin America.

I imagined the crowds lining the streets were all proud that they had sent text messages in to support Peña while he shook his booty and sang his songs for all of Latin America to see. Their hard work paid off as they stood anxiously waiting for the parade to start. Overhead small planes whizzed through the sky with banners stating, “BIENVENIDOS CARLOS PEÑA! Welcome Carlos Peña!” On the streets below traffic slowed to a halt as the frantic excitement to welcome home the new Guatemalan hero filled the air. The traffic became worse than when Bush shuts down cities in the United States for his visit. The need for release was incredible. When would he come by?! Finally, that familiar pyramid hairdo came into view as his car drove slowly through the crowd. Carlos Peña, a hero for his international singing fame, had come home.

Vista Hermosa Boulevard

Slowly the weather in Guatemala City has been changing. It’s not really like fall, per say, but the light is gone now by 6:30, rain comes every afternoon with heavy grey-black clouds, and some leaves on certain trees appear to be turning color. Even the light seems to take on the lower slant angle characteristic of autumn in the United States. Every morning I pull on a long sleeve shirt and take a coat with me as I head out into the day.

The cooler mornings mean indigenous women sit on street corners patiently ladling thick, sweet atol out of heavy plastic containers. On this day, I hand one lady Q2.50 and she fills a thin plastic cup with the starchy cinnamon flavored corn drink. It warms my chilled hands and body as I sip the hot liquid. Clusters of men and women, waiting for the bus or hurrying to work, stop to buy the atol, which has enough calories to fill one up until lunchtime. In the early morning the distant hills are covered with a persistent layer of clouds and mist. It will take several hours for the thick clouds and chilly air to be burned away by the tropical sun. But predictably, by around 11:00 the sun has pushed its cheery way through the clouds and begins to heat the city.

Early afternoon, the red number 2 bus drops me off at the corner and I make the half mile walk up to Pais, the grocery store. On the way, I note Señor Camaron (Mr. Shrimp) is out with his ceviche stand. My mouth waters as I imagine the taste of the acidic mixture of lime juice, tomato, onion, and seafood. I love the satisfying resistance of shrimp as I chew through the ceviche. Street smells of grilled sausage, tacos, charcoal, and plantains penetrate the air. I inhale the rich smells and watch the workers devouring their meager street cart lunches.

As I pass Vista Hermosa Bookstore, I notice the Mayan woman who sells overpriced strawberries is busily peeling and slicing mangos to sell to the passing people. One person stops for the treat and waits as the woman squeezes lime juice and sprinkles chili powder and ground pumpkin seeds on the mangos. The local snack shop is busily selling crunchy tacos spread this with unsweetened whipping cream while across the street walk several venders peddling chili-seasoned nuts on shoppers rushing into Pais.

I stop by the local tortilla woman, who sells four corn tortillas for Q1. While she stores them in a large towel-wrapped tub, they’re still warm from the pan she cooks them on. As I store the tortillas in my bag, I imagine I hear the practical slap, slap, slap of the experience hands forming tortillas out of the thick white corn flour. I picture the women shaping perfect circles then throwing them on the round hot plate to cook over an open fire. Expert hands flip the tortillas as the bottom side begins to brown. The mental image vanishes as the noisy number 1 terminal bus belches bye, spewing the street with thick, poisonous smoke. I thank the woman and hurry inside the super center to do my weekly grocery shopping.

Bags clutched in my hands, and sucking happily on a stick of chocofresas, or frozen chocolate-covered strawberries, I head back down my street, noting the tinges of colors on the leaves, newly erected fences protecting an empty lot, and the gardeners hurriedly chopping the neighbors’ lawns with finely sharpened machetes. We greet each other as I pass them on the street. I notice the big, billowing white clouds forming overhead and think of my Grandma Fellows. She loved those clouds. Here, it means that heavy sheets of rain would come in a few hours.

At the gate of my house, my landlady, Rosemarie, stood haggling with fruit venders over the price of mandarins, mangos, strawberries and bananas. I ask for a pound of strawberries and six bananas. Rosemarie successfully bartered the sellers down from the original price of Q21 to Q10 for the fruit. It was impressive. I exchange money for fruit with the venders, shut the gate, and return to my quiet apartment sanctuary.

It was time to work on transcriptions and research before my next trip to Tikal. My heart thudded as I thought of what October will bring: a Mayan ceremony in Tikal, Brian coming for three weeks, and adventuring around Guatemala. I knew instinctively that if I blinked my eyes, the month would end all too soon. But in the mean time, there was much to do and wait for before October 13 rolls around. It was time to get busy.

Te Ves Más Gorda…

While leaving my house yesterday, I ran into Ana, my neighbor. We exchanged the typical pleasantries, a kiss on the cheek, how are you, nice to see you, yadda yadda. As we parted, Ana said to me, “Nancy, te ves más gorda! You look fatter!” I looked at her aghast. I had just come back from Peten, where it’s so hot it saps my hunger away, and I had just worked out. Man! What the heck! Unsure of what to say I remarked that I hoped I hadn’t gained weight. She replied saying, “No, te ves más contenta. You look happier.” I thanked her and walked away.

Later, at school I told this story to Beberly, who said that looking fatter is a compliment in Guatemala. It means, “you looking good, girlfriend!” I just looked at Beberly and started to laugh. I explained that in the USA saying you’re looking fat is quite an insult, a kick in the bootie. Ouch! There, we say, wow, have you lost weight?, oh you look slim and healthy. None of this looking fat nonsense!

That comment, paired with my 15 evangelical taxi ride where I was preached to the entire ride, made my day. There’s nothing like being told your fat and then getting lectured that doing good deeds is not what God intends because all that does is boosts one’s ego. I wonder what Jesus would say about that….

Three Months

It has been three months since the eve of my journey to Guatemala. I remember vividly sitting with my father in my parent’s bedroom talking about this adventure. It had been such a long time in coming – two and a half years since I received the Rotary Scholarship. Yet at the same time, it was such a short time to transition from my home in Idaho, Brian’s graduation, graduate school, and all of a sudden moving to a foreign country. Concerns of being ill-prepared, hardly excited about the journey, and feeling uprooted overwhelmed me. What was I doing? Why was I leaving my home?

I knew from before I left that I was being untrue to myself. By going to this foreign country, I was upholding other people’s beliefs of who I am and denying my own desires, goals, and character. It is true, in the past I had been Nancy-the-would-be-ex-patriot. But, that Nancy no longer exists. I am still very excited to learn about the world and connect myself to it. Yet, I have grown to realize how very important my own culture, country, and character are to being true to myself.

When I look at who I am today, three months into this Guatemalan Adventure, I’m not sure I recognize myself. Who is this person wandering around Guatemala City and feeling constantly unbalanced? Who is this person that feels such acute homesickness, something that before has come and gone but never remained or overwhelmed me? Who is this person who realized what she wants after the commitment had been made? Who is this person biding her time in a foreign country?

Guatemala has profoundly helped me to reassess my goals in life. It has made me braver to act upon what I have always desired but hid from what others always thought I should do. It has strengthened me to knowing that, while incredibly difficult, my months in solitude are building me into an analytical, thoughtful, creative person. Without this loneliness, without these trials, I doubt my writing would emerge as it has. Without the constant strain of learning to live in another world, I doubt I would have woken to my soul’s needs.

Who is Nancy? I feel for many of my colleagues who have seen me over the past 9 years, I am a person motivated to bridge the gaps between developing and developed countries. I am a potential United Nations employee who will advance development and conservation. Justice, rights, and equity for all was my unspoken motto. When I returned from Ecuador, I was determined to work in cooperative communities to bring about social equity and economic equality to poor, high land communities of the Andes. According to some of these colleagues, I am bound to succeed in the international arena.

But I don’t feel like that is really me any more. After so many years invested in this persona, it has come slowly and achingly as a shock to realize how different I am from the young, idealistic woman returning from an amazing year abroad. It has been three years since I returned from Ecuador. In that time, my connection, my soul, and my being have found their home in the rugged purple mountains of Montana, the rolling wheat fields of the Palouse, the pungent mixture of sagebrush and sulfur of Yellowstone, and in the inexplicable beauty of the meandering mountain rivers of Idaho. I feel more like Lewis and Clark than Simon Bolivar, out for discovery and not for liberty.

As I sit in Guatemala City pondering my sense of home, I remember I have always had one image in my mind for the questions “if you could go to any time period, what would it be? If you could meet any hero, who would it be?” I recall my answer, perhaps unspoken, has always been to see the west before “civilization.” Oh, to see the sweeping fields of long grass prairie alight in summer blooms and witness thousands upon thousands of bison roaming the plains. To experience the Black Hills, the Rocky Mountains, and the Missouri River in pristine states before dams, exploitation, and development. I would go back to the 1800’s when Lewis and Clark made their great journey across our country – the Corps of Discovery. If I could meet any heroes, it would, without a doubt, be Lewis and Clark and their Corps of Discovery.

Every journey I take across the great state of Montana wakens this desire for discovery. My excitement at witnessing Lolo and Hoodoo Pass, at seeing the three forks of the Missouri, at imagining the typical Lewis and Clark pose stir in me the desire to discover, protect, and cherish the west. Our country is so vast, amazing, and rich with natural and cultural resources that I wish to be there to rediscover my roots.

When I was younger, I imagined the great wonders of the world. Mayan and Egyptian pyramids, Incan Cities, and Greek and Roman temples all played with my imagination. I wanted to leave the United States and experience life in other countries. I befriended international students and dreamed about traveling to Bavaria, Norway, and Peru to visit them. I couldn’t wait to leave, leave, leave! And now I find I can’t wait to go back.

I remember sitting with Bill Smith, my international studies undergraduate advisor, this spring and talking about adventuring. He looked at me and said, “Nancy, it’s funny. You spent your growing up wanting to go abroad and see the world’s wonders. I spent it wanting to explore our parks and natural resources. The United States is so large and diverse I just wanted to be here.”

I understand now what he meant. While I will still want to travel the world, to see the ancient wonders and cultural creations, I now feel an overwhelming need to reconnect to my country. I want to travel the United States, learn about its power and magic. I want to experience the mesas, the mountains, the plains and deserts. I want to connect to the land that has gifted our country with so much. I’m ready to end this international isolation and return home.

In the last three years, I fell in love with Moscow, with the west, and with Yellowstone. I strengthened values revolving around conservation, waste reduction, recycling, and identity. Sense of place immerged for me as a very real buzz word, one that describes the inexplicable connection, meaning, and identity I create in places. It explains the connection or disconnection I feel in locations. It may even explain why Guatemala and Nancy just don’t fit. There’s a great disconnect of soul, spirit, and me. I have hardly felt a calling, a draw, a joining with this place.

Never before do I remember feeling such homesickness, loneliness, and withdraw from a place. Even when I first returned from Ecuador, missing it dreadfully, I let Moscow and Iowa fill those holes in my heart. Last year in Yellowstone, I remember feeling anxious to be with Brian, to leave my housing situation, to go back to Moscow. But never was I as lonely or homesick as now. I embraced the time in Yellowstone as time to connect to its wildness and to learn to live with the land.

In Yellowstone, in that wild, beautiful, and sacred land, all my talks focused on adventure and sense of place. I asked every visitor to explore that land and find something that calls them home. My message told them to look, to discover, and find home in the call of a wolf on a cold, clear night, connect to the winding river in Lamar Valley, be awed by the explosive power of Old Faithful, and witness their souls being summoned to Yellowstone. That land has had a profound impact on my being. I forever wait to return to Yellowstone.

When I go to bed at night, it is not the noisy car alarms and construction trucks I hear, but the wind in the oak trees of the east, the honking of the geese in the fall, and the gushing of a geyser erupting. The smells that enter my nose are not those of low-grade diesel, but that sweet smell of sagebrush in the rain, freshly harvested apples, and earthy decomposing leaves. When I wake in the morning I imagine the warm sunshine on Joffee Lake in Yellowstone, the cool mountain air in the Selway-Bitterroot, and the comforting sense of identity I associate with the west.

Tim Sommer, my dear surrogate father in Idaho reminded me, "memories do indeed become sweet with the perspective of discovering that they were more significant to your prior experiences than you imagined at the time they passed before your eyes."

I will cherish this time in Guatemala as one of isolation, of learning, of development, and of definition. I value the lessons it has taught me of place, acceptance, and community. I will leave it a stronger person who will strive to improve life in the places I love. Yet, I will leave Guatemala knowing that for me, environment, community, home, family, and friends remain the deepest callings for my sense of place.

It is the west that calls me home. It is the west whose gifts I wish to receive and to nourish. It is the west I wish to protect. It is the deep sense of place each person feels in a certain location that I want to understand, nurture, and accept.

I ask you all to challenge yourselves to think of where you feel most whole, connected, and safe. Protect that place, worship it, and nourish your home with all your being. Find that sense of discovery in the ordinary, the home in the land, the love in your community. Find the place that makes you truly you.

Autumn

I sat curled in an armchair in Café Barista, when the rains began to fall. Heavy grey drops of water bounced off the cement and formed puddles in the parking lot. The smell of wet, earthy rain wafted in from the open door. I let my book close on my lap and sat staring out at the rain shower. The loneliness birds, as described by Bryce Courtenay, sat uncomfortably by me, squawking hungrily for my memories of rainy days. This late September shower sent me instantly back to a quiet evening at the end of October two years before….

In Moscow, Idaho, I sat reading at a wooden table in One World Café. Soft, warm light lit the coffee shop and the permeating smell of freshly ground coffee filled my nose. I lifted my cup of steaming hot cider to my lips, inhaling the autumn smells of apples and cinnamon before I took a sip of the amber liquid.

At 5:00, the fall light had faded, leaving Main Street dark. The store and street lights illuminated pools of the dark, autumn street. Little children, dressed as ghosts, Spiderman, and princesses, marched along the streets. Their parents led them into the brightly colored shops to collect Halloween candies. At the counter, Deanna greeted the children gleefully and handed them a brightly colored sucker, while Gaby, in a witch hat, cackled at them. The parents and children smiled, said their thanks, and walked back out the door into the cold night.

I watched the parades of children walk by and remembered the fateful Halloween at the age of 8 in Cedar Rapids. Halloween in Iowa was always cold and rainy. That year, my cousin Emily visited from Minneapolis. For Halloween, she dressed as Snow White while I sported a white sheet fashioned as a ghost. Predictably it was pouring. Even the cheerful carved pumpkins we had on the porch glistened with the fat, wet drops from the storm. I remember poor Emily got soaked in her Snow White costume, while I, under my ghost sheet, stayed dry in my raincoat.

The sound of the espresso grinder pulled me back to Moscow 14 years later. I heard the raspy sound of dry maple leaves skittering across the ground as a light breeze picked up. The sidewalk was littered with yellow, red, orange, and brown maple leaves. Slowly, plop by plop and drop by drop, the rain began. It was always raining at the end of October in Moscow. As if the weather gods knew it was nearly Halloween, they summoned the rains. Cold and wet, the rain that soaks into your bones and into your very being began to fall melancholically from the sky.

Gavin, sitting at the next table, looked up at me and we both sighed inwardly, knowing the rains had come again to Moscow. The next day at the Farmer’s Market was bound to be a cold one. We watched the heavy drops fall determinately past the window. The leaves, now shining from the rain, began to smell of that organic earth, the magic smell of rain-mixed leaves. It was the smell that always reminded me of autumn. I breathed in the earthy smell, glad to be safely inside the coffee shop, but knowing I could avoid the inevitable only a little longer. The rains in Moscow never end. They continue on and on, breaking briefly before persisting to fall until an occasional snowfall or summer comes again.

I slowly drank the final remains of my now cold cider, feeling the thick, powerful taste of wet cinnamon fill my mouth. It was time to brave the rain. Shrugging on my raincoat and stepping out in the rain, I unlocked my soaking bicycle and turned on its headlight. Swiftly I mounted the blue Bianchi and began peddling the rain soaked streets towards home on Lily Street. That bone-chilling night finished with a hot shower, a movie, and more warm cider from our recent trip to the apple orchard. I felt safe and warm. I remember a broad smile crossing my face as I excitedly anticipated the prospect of pasties, pumpkin carving, and Halloween extravaganzas that Moscow’s rains brought with it.

Now, two years later, sitting in the quiet coffee shop on Vista Hermosa, I can feel the slow, sad smile that characterizes my loneliness cross my pale face. As I sat watching, the rain continued to fall on this September day, just as it did in my Moscow memory of two years prior. Would the rain bring the same treats as in Moscow? Would there be pumpkins to carve for Halloween? Cider to sip? Apple pie to eat?

I could feel the loneliness birds hopping around me, feeding off my memory of beloved fall in Moscow. Is it foolish of me to have such profound thoughts and feelings about this other place thousands of miles away? The grass is greener on the other side of the fence, they say. I’m sure nostalgia will overcome me when I leave Guatemala. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that my soul has grown older, wiser perhaps, since my last international hiatus. The feeling of home, of sense of place, of community is deeply bound in me. It is conceptualized in the golden wheat fields and distant forest-green mountains surrounding Moscow, Idaho.

Home. Home found in the brilliant fall colors and eternal rains of Moscow. Home realized in the cool nights and warm days of early autumn. Home felt in the first bite of pumpkin pie, the first sip of dark 1554, the first sight of the leaves true colors. Home discovered in the taste of freshly harvested honeycomb from Iowa. Home experienced by watching Dracula, Wallace and Gromit, and Frankenstein on Halloween night. Home witnessed with the powerful golden light of the sun slipping sleepily below the autumn horizon. Home so powerfully located with people, places, and the beautiful rituals we create to show the passing of seasons. For me, this deep, profound feeling is that of being and feeling and experiencing my favorite time of year. It is of knowing there are apples to pick, cider to press, pumpkins to cook down, pie to bake, and leaves to throw joyously in the air. My autumn, my Moscow, my home.

Happy autumn.