Winter Symbols

There is something in the cold comfort of bare oak trees that will forever nourish me. Throughout my childhood growing up in the bitter cold of Iowa winters, the rasping grey-brown branches of the white oak symbolized life changing. Every season the trees would display some new miracle. In spring time pollen falling in long worm-shaped spirals would sink in rain puddles where I would fish them with Jeffery. Rich green leaves crowned the canopy in the long humid months of summer. In the fall, rust brown leaves would spin from the sky for us to rake into piles and drag into the backyard. Winter exposed the bare branches and coated them in layers of white, billowing snow.

Oak trees are one of the most familiar and homey trees I have experienced. Although I love the trees of Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana, nothing, not even the changing tamarack, seems to connect to so much of my life as the oak tree. Growing up on the border between the oak savanna and the tall grass prairie, oak trees older than the Civil War graced the surrounding hills. On windy days, I would play in the yard imagining I was conducting the trees to play the soft whooshing sounds their leaves made when playing with the breeze. Down the street a hillside of oak trees cooled the summer days and created a miniature wilderness in the midst of our neighborhood. The Nature Center brought together the subtle lines of prairie and oak savanna in a picturesque union of golden fields and brown-green limbs on the Cedar River flood plain.

When I landed in New York City to spend Christmas with my family, the first thing that registered with me was seeing in the darkness the naked winter trees of my youth. I knew when I crossed the river to New Jersey the hillsides would be covered with this wintery symbol. I welcomed the trees, the cold, the grey winter sky, and the brown land into my heart even as those winter symbols drew me back home. For, in Guatemala, the resolute tropical atmosphere, humidity, and overly green 5,000 foot hills, always give me the crawls. It just does not feel right that there is a consistency and never-changing environment around me. I need the cold, the sweaters, the winter light, and the hope of coming spring. Here in Central America, I feel decidedly uncomfortable about the climate (although it’s nice to be warm) for its lack of change, never-falling leaves, and constant unfamiliar and overwhelming green.

In Guatemala, the months hardly seem to vary and there is little seasonal change to look forward to as I cross off the days on the calendar. December in Iowa, Idaho, and New Jersey means cold, the longest night of the year, Christmas, and returning light. December in Guatemala seemed to mean constant fireworks, consistent temperature, posadas, and Gallo Christmas trees. I hardly realized Christmas was approaching here without the seasonal traditions of cookie baking, tree scavenging and decorating, and catching up with home. What is Christmas here? I never learned.

Seeing the bare limbs of the deciduous trees and the ice on Cedar Lake, feeling the warmth of family, and enjoying the spirit of the season through Christmas carols, caresses, and compassion, I felt safe and whole again for the first time in six months. What a remedy to months of solitude. The wintery symbols were all I needed to feel complete again.

Earthquakes

For the past 3 days tremors have shaken Guatemala City. My imagination would like to pretend these are Giants shaking and grooving, or that Chicken Little is running about exclaiming, “the sky is falling!” But it’s really the earth moving.

On Friday, I sat in my flimsy chrome chair at the kitchen table resolutely punching numbers into my Tikal database. My chair started shaking. I thought it must just be because the chair is weak or maybe I felt dizzy. Then I noticed that a low rumbling sound, almost imperceptible, seemed to be groaning from the earth itself. The table started shaking. I looked up alarmed and saw my entire apartment begin to twist, warp, and move to the earth’s grumble. The structure shook unnaturally, shaking on the world’s plastic surface as earth buckled and stretched below. It felt as if a malignant being were trying to escape from the center of the earth through Guatemala’s sewers.

My eyes went wide in shock and fear. I’d never been in a big earthquake before, and this was big. This was moving my whole house in a circular skewering movement. What was I supposed to do? Frantically I stood and shaky-kneed moved over to pick up my passport, debit cards, water, and camera from a nearby chair and shoved them in a bag. Now what? Was I supposed to run outside to escape a collapsing building or hide in a doorway, closet or bathroom like in a tornado?

Within 10 seconds the quake stopped, leaving the world as stagnant, yet unsettled, as before it started. The world seemed inert again, but also suddenly alive and full of the human tension that permeates Guatemala City. I was reminded of Global Environmental Change and Lee’s talk about plate tectonics and how corn and the Himalayas are related. “C4 plants! Carbon dioxide! I want to go home! There are no earthquakes where I live!” The four thoughts rushed simultaneously in my head even as I realized that Yellowstone experiences several quakes a day, we just don’t feel them. Teeth gritted determinately, I reminded myself of my vow to return home by the end of February. “I’m not letting an earthquake prevent me from going home!” I stated determinately and daringly to Guatemala’s active crust.

The rest of the day, while I tried to ignore the thought that “the earth is still very much alive,” as Pibs says, I couldn’t help being hypersensitive to subtle movements. My shaky table continued to shake as I typed on my computer’s keyboard. Was that the start of another quake? I occasionally lifted my hands from it to see if the world was moving. The forceful 80 mph wind outside howled and shook the house. I turned off the music to listen.

I fell asleep that evening to restless dreams where The New Pornographers’ “Myriad Harbor” echoed in my ears. A shriek coming from the beds moving and the same low rumble from the earth-monster partially woke me at 4:00 am. I forced my heavy eyelids open, trying to decide if that was really another quake or if my active imagination was on overdrive. The world stopped moving and almost instantly I drifted back to sleep.

The following morning Bridgette, who was over 70 miles away from me called to say she had felt the night quake too. Fear slunk coldly into me as I thought of how strong a quake had to be for both her house and my house to move to the same tremor. The day past quietly and the earth seemed to have scratched the itch that pestered it into shaking. My nerves calmed a little, wondering how many more “study abroad moments” I really wanted to experience in Guatemala.

Today I went and talked to Rosemarie and Roberto about proper earthquake protection. Rosemarie’s eyes went wide as she said, “Yes! It was a very big quake! They are normally very small quakes but this was big.” Roberto interjected, “Yes in the papers it said it was a 5 something.” Roberto informed me that upon a tremor I should lie down next to the bed and throw a blanket over me. Going under the bed meant I could get squashed. I refrained from saying that I was sure lying next to the bed would do little to stop the ceiling from killing me either.

I had just returned to my work when I felt it again. The earth shuddered and twisted. The earth-monster was trying to reappear. Again, my eyes popped open with fear as my breath came low and shallow. The world shook and I thought, “I just want to go home, please.” Maybe the earth heard me as the world righted itself seconds later. Maybe I’m just hopeful that it listened. Mostly, I want to leave before the sky crashes into the earth’s hungry mouth.

Six Months

For the first time in Guatemala I had friends around. Friends who truly care about me, love me, and nourish me. For the first time in six months, I explored Guatemala joyously with the companionship of Bridgette, Hanne, and Pibs at my side. The wonders of Guatemala opened to me as I saw the heavens from Tajumulco and alpine environment around Xela, experienced crashing waves and turtle releases in Monterrico, learned everything there was to learn about coffee production, and laughed at street venders and snack eaters. Guatemala became something less serious and more joyous during December. It was a time where I met beautiful and inspirational people, savored and learned to make rich hot chocolate, and saw through the frustrations to the humor of this foreign country.

Friends made all the difference. Having someone to talk to and share with, experience and wonder with, and inspire me to explore Guatemala’s beauty made this time abroad blossom for me. All I needed was the support of people to get me to find a better place in this foreign land.

Thank God for Pibs with his words of inspiration and support, for Hanne who got me out there, and for Bridgette’s calming and cheerful presence. They saved December and Guatemala for me. Hanne got me mountain climbing and traveling again. Pibs said I’m doing all right and making good decisions. Bridgette helped root me again in the spirit of home-finding in a foreign country. Their support has been invaluable and I thank them forever for helping me find the joy in the tension, the rush of traveling 100 miles at 25 miles an hour, and humor in the insanity of Guatemala.

Then I went home. I went home to the warm embraces of family for Christmas. I nearly cried when I set my feet on the homeland again. There was New York City’s skyline, the one city I’d consider living in. There was Dan waiting to show me around his new home. Getting off the bus in Denville, I was united with one of my most sacred places. There was my aunt, uncle, and cousins making jokes, finding treats to eat at the Viking Bakery, and always ready to walk around Cedar Lake. There was my Grandma always ready with a hug and stories and my Grandpa ready with a joke and Snickers in the top drawer of his desk. My parent’s came: Mom working on a puzzle like every Christmas and Dad back to exploring his childhood home. Marie and Jack were there with their humor and calm sense of selves. Everyone was there, my whole family.

Even though the Christmas traditions were different from Iowa, the sense of home, safety, and comfort filled me with the spirit of the season and spirit of love. I was loved and I loved in return. I understood the culture, the nuances, the language. The warmth of 33 Cedar Lake West filled me as it always does with the joy and beauty of having a sense of place, a sacred place, that revolves around home, family, humor, seriousness, and love. The most wonderful Christmas miracle was being home with my family.

This December blessed me with family and friends. They saved Guatemala for me. They made this six month priceless, unforgettable, and reviving. I thank you, friends and family, forever.

New Year’s Eve

We watched the sun set over Manhattan from the Queens bound N train. The train clattered and shrieked along its elevated platform as we rattled towards the end of the line in Astoria. It was completely dark as we walked down the Greek dominated streets of Astoria towards Karissa’s home. There were countless bakeries emitting tempting smells of freshly baked cupcakes, gingerbread, and fruit tarts onto the street. The fish market restaurant was busy (according to Karissa it’s always busy) on this New Year’s Eve night.

Her apartment lies in the basement of a quiet residential street in Astoria, eight blocks from the end of the line of the N train. It was cozy inside and we settled in trying to figure out the New Year’s plan. Everyone’s dream, it seems, is to be at Times Square when the ball drops. We formulated our plan around trying to see the ball early, and find a place to hang out and stay there until midnight because according to Karissa’s friends, “it’s a terrible idea to bar hop on New Year’s.” According to Eli, “New Year’s is a great time to ride the subway. Everyone’s happy.” We were armed with these pieces of advice as we ventured out into the night.

Back on the N train, we commuted to mid town Manhattan where we sat watching people in fancy party outfits, skirts that barely covered their bottoms, three inch heels, and emo clothes load and unload to their respective parties. When we arrived in mid town I was instantly amazed by the deceptive quiet. This part of town is constantly flashing, covered in tourists, and loud. While there were thousands of people in the 10 radius blocks around Times Square, no one seemed to be speaking or moving. There was an unnatural hush. Karissa looked at me and said, “Oh just you wait, it won’t stay quiet for long.”

We followed the rush of people trying to make their way to see the ball. I walked along trying to figure out why everyone makes such a big deal out of New Year’s anyway. All people seem to do is get dressed in outrageous clothes, go to some party, get drunk and try to make out with some person. Or maybe that’s what we always think people are doing. My New Year’s eves normally consist of going to a movie or wishing I had some place to go out to while my parents and their friends eat roasted chestnuts and shrimp cocktail and put together puzzles at home. Well, now was my chance to see what New Yorkers do.

After following the crowd ever further uptown away from Times Square, Karissa, Emily, and I decided to give up. It wasn’t worth walking to 55^th then 59^th then 65^th then who knows where to try to see a ball we wouldn’t be able to see from that far away. It was time to move onto the next part of the plan. Karissa steered us to 9^th Ave and away from the crowd where we walked looking for a cool pub to hang out in until midnight. Luck was with us as we found the Snug, a little chill bar on 9^th Ave with no cover fee. But, before long we migrated to a new locale, even though Karissa had been explicitly informed by every friend “not to bar hop on New Year’s Eve!” The other bar was a sport’s bar and needless to say, we returned to the Snug with 45 minutes to spare.

The Snug was packed with all sorts of people as the final half hour ticked by. The bar tenders handed out party hats and noise makers in preparation for the madness. Instantly, the bar was full of loud hoots, shrieks, toots, and crackling noises as people tried out their respective noise makers. Girls went into the boys bathrooms when the line for the girl potty backed up so far the call of nature took over.

Finally, the final two minutes approached. The crowd went wild blowing on their noise makers and shouting, “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!” The ball began to drop, celebrating its 100^th year of existence. “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!” the crowd in the Snug exclaimed. The three of us stood and laughed as people began downing champagne, jumping in the air, kissing their significant others or whoever else was around, and crying joyfully about the New Year. Old Langs Ain began playing and people drunkenly tried to sing along. Their attempts were noble, but we didn’t stick around to hear them. It was time to head for the subway.

On our walk there, we passed by separate groups of people hollering happily, “HAPPY F****** NEW YEAR! HAPPY M***** F****** NEW YEAR!” Hell yeah! Other groups were unhappily crying and screaming at each other saying, “I can’t BELIEVE you kissed her!!!!!!” “Well, you went off with TOM!” Bad idea. New Year’s ruined. Not smart to randomly kiss people. Hopefully the rest of the year kicks off better for them.

Finally we reached the Columbus Circle A train stop and I descended into the unnatural tube to get transported back to Brooklyn. New Year’s hats, sound makers, and smiling people surrounded me on the train. So this is how New Yorkers celebrate, I thought. Right on, “Happy F****** New Year indeed!”

Wishing you a very happy and fruitful 2008! It's gonna be great in 2008!

The First Night

Stepping off the plane into the cold wintery night of New York City, I felt the emotion growing inside me. Finally I was home, home for Christmas. Along with the other travelers, I filed off the plane, down the empty no-space corridors, and through customs. We passed a sign that announced, "Welcome to NYC." Thank God! I thought, I am back in New York!

It was amazing to be able to understand everything that went on around me. Without trying I knew how to work the public transportation, how to respond to questions without pondering the motives, and how I felt at home for the first time in six months.

In the dark December night different people helped me with my backpacking pack, steered me towards the correct public transit, and playfully commented, "I'd like to go camping!" when they saw my bag. I turned towards them and said, "Yeah, I'd like to go camping too."

I hopped on the A train and took its clickity clack ride across Brooklyn to Jay Street. Dan had told me to exit by the Polytech university and wait for him in Starbucks. Thoughts of the golden light of the coffee shop warmed me as I watched the subway zombie people. Finally the train approached the stop with a squeal of breaks and I hopped off the train and onto the platform.

I emerged into the night to be greeted by a Plaza full of white Christmas lights decorating the deciduous trees and a large Christmas tree. There was the Starbucks where I awaited, contentedly sipping Oregon Chai as I waited for Dan to find me in the Christmasy night.

Street Venders

An important sector of Guatemala’s economy falls in the informal sector. This includes food sellers, fruit venders, shoe shiners, scavengers, and street venders. As Ana described it to me, “Everyone in Guatemala sells something. I sell clothes and cleaning products from a catalogue. Other people sell silver and gold jewelry. You should try to sell something, pues, Nancy.” In a developing country, it makes sense that most people try to make it by any means possible.

Street venders seem to be the largest faction of this informal sector of the economy. In any touristy town women dressed in traditional indigenous clothes comb the streets for gullible foreigners to by their myriad items. As a very white, red headed woman, I have the recipe for instant attraction of all the street vendor flies. They swarm around me whenever I appear in an area shoving their metallic necklaces, florescent fabrics, and rainbow hair bands in my face. The typical strategy of these street vendors is to first offer the good, then become indignant about it if you say you don’t want it, continue to thrust the item at you, lower the price repeatedly, and eventually, to refuse to take no for an answer. They are all about the hard sale.

I’d like to provide some examples:

1. Nut Sellers

Standing outside the US embassy waiting to meet one of Hanne’s friends, an elderly man walking on the shady street honed in on the fact that not one but three Americans were standing complacently by the embassy entrance. He stopped and began to proclaim, “Cashews! Cashews!” When we said we didn’t want any, his eyes widened and thrusting his plastic nut sacks towards us exclaimed, “CASHEWS! They are cheap and good!” We continued to express our disinterest even as the man continued his exclamations at the benefits of eating his cheap and good cashews.

2. Pirated DVD/CD Sellers

As if on clockwork whenever I leave Super Center Pais with my groceries, hoards of young men with hand-me-down L.L. Bean backpacks and hands clutching stacks of burned movies and CD’s latch on to me yelling, “Películas, CD’s, música!” It’s as if, since I’m a gringa, I will obviously want to buy their pirated material (although they often insist that their DVD’s are originals, which means they were filmed in the theater). Sadly, for these desperate chaps, I have neither a DVD player nor a CD player and am decidedly disinterested in collecting crap anyway. I always shake my head and continue on with their shouts of the greatness of their movie collection echoing in my ears.

3. Food Venders

Perhaps the least pushy group of the street vender crowd is the food venders. They generally seem to think, “If you’re hungry, you’ll come to me.” That’s probably a good assumption. When I’m in Xela or Antigua, I love walking through the market inhaling the odors of grilled chicken, burning wood, hot atol, heated tortillas, and hot chocolate. “Que le damos? What can we give you?” the señoras ask, but they don’t push their luck. If it’s obvious I’m not that interested, they stop pestering me. The same happens with the fruit and vegetable venders who yell, “Hay mandarinas, naranjas, fresas, sandia, melon…. There are mandarins, oranges, strawberries, watermelon, cantaloupe.” But, whenever I state that I’m headed off on another expedition, they say, “Okay, maybe Saturday,” And leave it at that.

4. Sticker, Card, and other such Venders

One day in Guatemala City, while Pibs, Hanne, and I were trying to enjoy an open-air taco meal (bad idea to eat in the open in Latin America) flocks of boys (who should be in school) came up to our table. One boy with Power Ranger stickers attached himself to Hanne. When she insisted she really didn’t want any Power Ranger stickers he steeled himself and began flipping through the stickers as if thinking, “If I show you more Power Ranger stickers you will obviously want to buy them.” He finally realized he was wasting his time. Pibs credited him with persistence, which I suppose is true.

In Antigua, Hanne and I were sitting on a park bench when a little boy of five came up to us. “Coooooompra,” he said with Bambi eyes, “Coooooompra. Mira. Muy bonito. Buuuuuuuy, look, very pretty.” He was trying to get us to purchase little cards with a painting of Antigua’s plaza and a prayer on the back. We attempted to tell him we really didn’t want to buy them, so he leaned his little body on me and shoved the cards directly into Hanne’s boob. “Whoa!” She exclaimed, and again insisted she didn’t want them. He switched aims and shoved the cards into my boobs, where I also exclaimed, “Whoa, kid!” Persistently staring at us with his big brown eyes he kept grinning and saying, “Coooompra! Bien, compra!”until after an awkward conversation with his mom, who did not call him off our boobs, he wandered away.

5. Craft venders

Single handedly, my least favorite, the pushiest, and persistently annoying group are the handicraft sellers. They are absolutely convinced that every white person wants whatever junk they are trying to sell. Walking through Panajachel I was accosted every minute to purchase ugly necklaces decorated with ceramic people-beads, pens covered in bright embroidery thread, my name written on a piece of rice, or richly colored and decorated clothes. The general tactic to convince gringas to purchase this stuff is to shove the item three inches from their face and insist that they need to buy it. If that doesn’t work, they will tend to show the person 5,000 of the same item (in different colors) convinced that if the gringa sees more of the item they will obviously want to buy it. Often these strategies come accompanied by attempts to speak English or to call the woman, “baby, muñeca, cariño, reina, or Barbie (one kid called me Barbie and I stopped, glared at him, and said, “don’t f***** call me Barbie!” I was pissed).

My favorite of such interactions was on the lakefront where Bridgette and I sat trying to figure out what to do. A woman came up, her arms laden with multicolored fabrics. She had targeted me and began explaining all the merits of purchasing a baby-blue quetzal decorated fabric. I told her over and over and over that I really didn’t want to buy anything. She said, “Look, so beautiful. Muy bonito. For you mother. Yes. For you mother. A present. A present from Guatemala. For your sister. For your aunt. For your brother. If not for someone you like, for your enemy. Buen precio. How much you pay? Good price. Okay, mira, for your Q40. Siiii, compra.” In the end I had to get rude and tell her I really didn’t want to buy her fabrics. As soon as she backed off another person came up targeting Bridgette. Really people!

6. Beggers

Little snot-nosed, grubby, and probably, lice-infested kids also like to attack the gringas. I suppose we seem sympathetic. Their attempt is to get coins from the tourists (or get them to purchase whatever junk they’re selling) for “noble causes” that range from bread, water, candy, shirts, shoes, to you name it, they’ve got the answer.

In Panajachel a boy loudly smacking and chewing a piece of white bread smothered in refried beans came up to me trying to sell some particularly unattractive coin purses. Watching him simutaneously eat and haggle was quite impressive. He followed me for at least two blocks saying, “Cooooompra. Mira, cooooooompra. UN quetzal. Mira, dame un quetzal. Quiero agua pura. Dame un quetzal. Sí. Sí. Mira. Sí. Un quetzal. Quiero agua pura. Buuuuuuy. Look, buuuuuuuuy. One quetzal. Look, give me a quetzal. I want purified water. Give me a quetzal. Yes. Yes. Look. Yes. One quetzal. I want water.” For two blocks! He really was convinced I was going to give him something. Finally, some other likely-looking tourist attracted his attention and I was free for 30 seconds before 4 other street kids came up asking for gum, bread, water, anything under the sun. The worst thing is they say it indignantly. It’s not a request or a plea it’s a you-better-give-me-something-and-I-know-if-I-say-it-demandingly-enough-you-will-give-it-to-me kind of approach. It is not cute, charming, or heart-wrenching but strictly frustrating and annoying. These kids need a begging lesson.

What gets me is when people say the junk is cute and actually buy the ugly necklaces, traje-clad dolls, cheaply made purses, and embroidery thread pens (come on, that’s soooo fifth grade!). Apparently the hard approach works for some people. Personally, I think the greatest help to development in Guatemala would be for business students to come down and teach this informal sector how to sell goods. Maybe a little supply/demand, strategies, coaxing, and teaching an approach besides the hard sell would be effective here. It might even get cheap tourists like me to consider being more interested in their items. As it is, I get really irritated every time I hear some people come up saying, “COOOOOOMPRA!”

Refaccion

The hulking metal-framed Linea Dorada bus wheezed 25 miles per hour through the Interamerican Highway construction zone near Tecpan. I watched the scenery change gradually from the hot, cement sprawl of Chimaltenago to the lush cornfields by Tecpan. Shortly, we passed several restaurants that serve delicious local foods like blue-corn tortillas, locally cured hams, cheeses, and freshly made jams. My mouth salivated as I thought of how delicious the hot chocolate is in one store before remembering that Xelajú has the best cocoa in the country.

Slower than George, the tortoise, the bus groaned up the mild grade past Tecpan and on into the second leg of the potentially six hour journey to Quetzaltenango. It was 10:00 am and as we passed these restaurants reeking with the smells of garlic, green onions, and coffee, I breathed a sigh of relief. We might just make it to Xela without stopping for refacción. The bus began to pick up speed as it edged over the end of the grade and along the sinuous highway. We drove speedily away from Tecpan and on towards Xela.

Then, as the bus slowed gradually for what appeared to be another construction zone, it jolted over the pavement onto the gravel road and eased into a parking area in front of a small, run-down restaurant. The breaks squealed as the driver excitedly parked the bus and the attendant hopped out to get in line. We all sat solidly on the bus, not believing that after only two hours of driving we would be stopping. Finally, the portly driver stood up and faced the crowd. “Es hora de refacción. It’s time for snack break,” he said in a gleeful schoolboy voice. We all had to file off the bus, where the Guatemalans proceeded to excitedly purchase and consume coffee, tortillas, meat and cheese. Snack time is very important to them. “I hate refaccion,” Hanne and I said bitterly while Bridgette laughed. Thanks to refacción, we arrived in Xela at least an hour late….

…. Returning from Xela in a double decker Linea Dorada bus, Hanne and I sat praying the bus driver would just floor it to Guate. We got a late start and progressed slowly through the construction zones and paved highway. Our bus, going a maximum of 30 mph, was too timid to pass the myriad other vehicles on the road. Occasionally, I asked Hanne the time, despairing as I calculated that in three hours we had gone approximately 70 kilometers, not even half the distance back to Guate. Finally after hours, the lights of Tecpan blinked past and it seemed that yet again we were in the clear of refacción.

A Texaco gas station’s neon and florescent lights loomed ahead of us. “No, no, no!” Hanne began to moan next to me. I realized what was happening as if in slow motion. The bus was jack knifing itself a place to stop in the parking lot, “No, no, no!! REFACCION!” I exclaimed. “I’m boycotting it,” Hanne muttered, “I’m not getting off this damn bus.” We slumped in our seats as the attendant came up and called out, “15 minutos para descansar. 15 minutes to break for refacción.” Excitedly, the Guatemalans marched out of the bus to buy their nachos, tamales, tostados, aguas, and candies. They must have been starving after not eating for like two hours.

Disheartened, I walked to the bathroom where several Guatemalan women exclaimed in the same breath, “Aiiiiiiiii, it’s taking soooooo loooooong to get to Guate! Aiiiiiiii, I can’t believe we only have 15 minutes for refacción!!!!!!! Aiiiiiiiiiii, no! That’s not enough time.” I glared at them, thinking that without refacción we’d be a whole lot closer to Guatemala. Hanne had been kicked off the bus by the attendant who insisted that everyone needed the 15 minute descanso. She got off the bus muttering that if we were going to take freaking refacción then she was going to get something to eat too. I looked around at the people and said, “I don’t get it. Guatemalans eat snacks all the time; they’re constantly eating. How come they aren’t all fat?” Hanne looked at me and through gritted teeth said, “They are all fat! They just short and squat too!” When she said that, I started looking around, and indeed, the Guatemalans were all short, stocky, with substantial waists. Refacción! In the end, 15 minutes was 30 minutes and it took nearly 7 hours to drive the 200 kilometers to Guatemala from Xela….

…. Driving in microbus from Panajachel to los Encuentros, I thought the drive was going to hurl the bus over the mountain into the canyon. Maybe he’s just in a hurry for refacción, I thought. We arrived in los Encuentros before our connection shuttle to Xela. On the side of the dusty, congested highway Bridgette and I waited impatiently with the microbus driver. Where was the freaking micro already!? Gosh! Finally, the little white van drove up, pushed us inside, and started the three hour trip to Xela. Barely two minutes down the road, the driver pulled over, stalled the car and mumbled, “Sorry, sorry, I just…” and got out of the car with the attendant. Bridgette and I looked at each other, “refacción!!!!” Sure enough, five minutes later, the two drivers hurried back to the car, their arms full of Pepsi cola, bread, and potato chips. Bridgette concluded that refacción must have developed when most people still worked in hard labor, meaning they needed more calories. Most of them certainly don’t need those calories today. Refacción!....

…. Finally, this morning driving from Xela to Antigua I watched the miles melt under the microbus’ tires. We passed construction site after construction site, drove by chicken buses who in turn passed us, and forged a path through the persistent black exhaust of the construction cars. Halfway through the journey, we passed los Encuentros and turned left. “No, no, no!!!” I screamed in my head, “they can’t be stopping for refacción!” But indeed, it was 10:00 am and the drivers looked around at their load of foreigners and said, “Okay, we have 10 minutes for refacción.” Ten minutes, yeah right. After twenty minutes the drivers finally came back clutching Styrofoam cups of atol and frantically eating fluffy white rolls. I scowled at them, willing them to get back in the car so we could get Antigua before afternoon. We continued the journey with no more stops, but all I could think was, “I hate refacción.”

These hobbitish people are seriously serious about their food. At 7:30 it’s time for breakfast. At 10:00 it’s time for refacción. At 1:30 it’s time for lunch. At 3:00 it’s time for refacción. At 5:00 it’s time for refacción. Finally, at 7:30 it’s time for dinner. Where do they put all those calories? How do thy burn them off especially when exercise is a very novel concept? That question will continue to bother me as refacción will continue to harass me on my journeys around this country.

American moral of the story: Being well fed is the key to inefficiency.

Guatemalan moral to the story: When it’s time for refacción, it’s time for refacción, pues.