The Cockroach

In September, a thick-shelled brown cockroach sauntered into my house behind my feet. It just walked right in and made itself at home. I freaked out when I saw it even as Beberly was saying, “Aiiii, no lo lastimes! Don’t hurt it!” I looked at her funny and thought, why the heck is she sympathizing for a nasty, dirty, infectious, multiplying, disgusting roach?! Eaaaaaeeech. Promptly, I tried to squash the nasty bugger but it speeded away out of site into the kitchen. My dreams that night were full of cockroach populations crawling all over my kitchen and bedroom, emerging from drains, squeezing under doorways, and hissing loudly at me. That’s it, I thought, this roach is going down.

Months past as every night I tried to smash its exoskeleton into oblivion. We had a tournament going on: who would win “survival of the fittest?” Finally, in October, I got it! I smashed it against the wall and watched it fall into the dark abyss behind the stove. Had I killed it? Could it be? But alas, as I stared into the darkness, I noted that its shiny body was missing. The bugger survived!

Reluctant to buy chemicals to kill it, I kept up the David and Goliath contest with the cockroach. It seemed that the roach, David, was winning, as I, the bumbling giant, had to learn to live with its filthy presence. Entomologists exclaimed about the benefits of roaches. “New York City would be a giant mound of trash if cockroaches didn’t eat the garbage. They come in so many colors and sizes. They’re so useful,” they explained. But I didn’t care, to me, they would always be the terror of my middle school life, the haunting of their speedy frames dead on the stairwells and scuttling in the boiler room. I hated them.

I tried many tactics. I would keep all lights off and approach the wall by the stove silently prepared to bean it with a shoe. I would wake at various hours of the night and fly at it like a ghost to smash its ugly body. I went away for weeks at a time, hopeful that it would die from lack of food. I sprayed it with cleaning supplies. But, alas, no, it continued to live despite my many attempts. It did, however, become wary of me.

Finally, I resigned defeat. It would survive longer than my lease on the apartment. Fine, whatever, see if I care, I thought to myself as I packed my bags and headed to Honduras. Whatever, roach.

Ten days later I returned. All was still in the house. I went to the sink to fill up a glass of water and looked down at the drain. “Oh my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Oh my gosh!” For there, lying with its 5 legs prostrate (apparently I had smashed off one leg) and antenna askew, was David, the cockroach. Its one-inch frame glistened menacingly even in its final moments. I ran water in the sink, not wanting it to escape if it were merely playing dead. It spiraled and circled in the flow of water, a sole leg twitching. I dumped in cleaning fluids with a, “take that! Hah!” and finally, I squashed off its little head to make sure it was really dead as a doornail.

As it turns out, the cockroach did not outlast the lease. Goliath has won.

Confrontations and Repeat Conversations

As a white, red-headed foreigner living in Guatemala, it’s hard not to feel like everyone targets you. It’s made even worse by the inaccurate stereotype that everyone who is white and a foreigner is obviously rich. As Hanne says, compared to the peasants, perhaps we are richer in their country. But it’s all relative, my friends.

Mostly, constantly feeling like I’m getting ripped off by nice people who think I’m rich leads for a very dramatic existence in Guatemala. All I want is to see this place, enjoy life, and be able to house and feed myself. Is that so much to ask? But several times a week, I have confrontations. Confrontations and repeat conversations.

I have confrontations about money: getting overcharged for services, haggling for a better price, and monetary demands from street kids. Repetative conversations seem the norm: gas is so expensive, but I’m undercharging her, but… but… but. Arguments trying to get a fair price, not the gringa price, take a lot of guts. Only once has someone said the truth, “well, you’re charged more because you’re white. You’re charged more because you’re not from here.” There’s one honest soul in this country, and he’s boatman in Panajachel (just kidding, there's lots of honest people).

What does it take people to get a fair price!? Oh, let me give you some scenarios.

1. Taxi Drivers in Guatemala City

Nancy: How much is it to go to Zona 15, Vista Hermosa 1? (about 5 miles – should be Q40)

Taxi Driver: Oooooh, Q70.

Nancy: What?!

Taxi Driver: Q70.

Nancy: Why so much? It should be Q40.

Taxi Driver: Ooooh, but gas is soooooooo expensive these days. It costs sooooo much to drive around and Vista Hermosa is soooooo faaaaar away.

Nancy: It takes 10 minutes to get there. Q40.

Taxi Driver: No, seño, I can’t drive for that little. It is so expensive to get there. You can’t expect me to accept less than Q60.

Nancy: The last taxi driver took me for Q40.

Taxi Driver: Fine, fine, Q55. It’s just that gas is soooooo expensive. Look, it’s over Q24 a gallon. That’s sooooo much money. And Vista Hermosa is soooo far away.

Nancy: Q50.

Taxi driver: Q55.

Nancy: Q50.

Taxi driver: Fine, Q50. But, gas is so expensive these days. Look, it’s over Q24 a gallon. And Vista Hermosa is soooo far away.

By this time I’m trying not to roll my eyes and be annoyed at how expensive everything is in Guatemala City. The taxi drivers really like to talk about how expensive gas is when they see I’m white and I’m going to an exclusive part of town. The real reason for the price inflation is I’m white and a foreigner and obviously have money.

2. Trama: the Women’s Weaving Cooperative.

Nancy: It says here in your brochure that a scarf takes about 10 hours to make and costs Q325. Why are you charging me more?

Doña Aurelia: Well, we charge by the hour and you used more than 10 hours to finish your project.

Nancy: But, after the loom was set up, I did all the work myself. Why are you charging me for work I did myself? Why don’t have a set price for projects?

Doña Aurelia: Hm, that’s a good point. I’ll tell Doña Amparo. You don’t have to pay the full amount. It’s okay.

Nancy: [confused at this negotiation] Okay, but I still want to give you a fair exchange.

Doña Aurelia: It’s okay.

[enter Doña Amparo]

Doña Amparo: Aiiiiiii, chica, how did your scarf turn out? Aiiiii, chica, it’s so pretty.

Doña Aurelia: We were just talking about how the price in the brochure and the cost of the scarf didn’t match and I said it was okay that she pays less because she says we didn’t help her and she did it all herself.

Nancy: What I said was that the prices don’t match, that it makes more sense to have a price per project that covers expenses and original labor, and that after the loom is set up I did the work myself.

Doña Amparo: Aiiii, chica, you’re right, we should have something in the brochure that says extra hours will be charged.

Nancy: That’s a great idea.

Doña Amparo: Aiii, chica, it’s just that we are supporting 400 women with this cooperative. We don’t even get a salary because all the money goes to the women. The money from the weaving classes goes to pay for paper, rent, staples and supplies. We have to have volunteers because we don’t even get paid. Aiii, chica, we have to make little projects ourselves in order to make a living. Aiii, chica, life is so hard. We’re supporting 400 women with this cooperative….

At this point Doña Amparo starts sounding like adults in Peanuts “waaaah wah wah wah wah.”

Nancy: I know, that’s why I decided to learn to weave here. But, the prices don’t match with what you’re charging.

Doña Amparo: Aiiii, chica, it’s true. Aiii, it’s just that some people weave in less time and we can’t charge them more when they work less time. Aiii, chica, life is so hard. We are supporting 400 women with this cooperative. We don’t even get a salary. Aiii, chica.

Doña Aurelia: She said it took longer because she didn’t make a scarf but a table runner since there are no spaces in the weaving.

Nancy: No, I said that the price in the brochure and the price you’re charging me don’t match and is too expensive for something I made myself.

Doña Amparo: Aiiiiiii, chica. Aiii, it’s just that some people weave in less time and we can’t charge them more when they work less time. Aiii, chica, life is so hard. We are supporting 400 women with this cooperative. We don’t even get a salary. Aiii, chica.

After twenty minutes of this repetitive conversation, I bought a cosmetic case in order to appease them and left, feeling less ripped off but still ripped off since I had left the same amount of money in the store as they were going to charge me in the first place.

The real reason for this price gauging is I’m white and a foreigner and obviously have money.

3. The Rent for One Week at Esperanza’s House

Nancy: Esperanza, I’m leaving today, how much do you want me to give you for rent? I stayed here one week this week and two nights last week.

Esperanza: I’ll think about it.

Nancy: Okay.

[several hours later]

Esperanza: I decided to charge you Q150 for last week and Q350 for this week.

Nancy: But you charge Bridgette Q300 a week.

Esperanza: Yes, but when she came I decided to charge her less than the language students. Language students have to pay Q350 a week.

Nancy: But why are you charging me more than Bridgette? I’m not a language student. Can’t you charge me Q300?

Esperanza: Aiiiii, but I should be charging her Q350.

Nancy: But you’re charging her Q300.

Esperanza: Okay, Q300 for you too. But just because you’re one of my girls. Just for you and Bridgette, okay? I hope you send other students to me. You know I have such a good home here. Aiiiii, the gas is so expensive these days. It costs so much to buy gas and food and the gas is so expensive. Aiiiii, it costs soo much money.

Nancy: So Q300 for this week then? I’ll give it to you later.

Bridgette: How much is she charging you?

Nancy: Q150 for last week and Q300 for this week.

Bridgette: What?! I paid Q100 for last week and we were here for the same amount of time. That’s what Tania paid too. And she charged me too much for last week.

Craig: What is she charging you?

Nancy: Q150 for last week and Q300 for this week.

Craig: That’s not right. I pay Q350 a week and you were just here for two nights last week. You should only have to pay Q100 because Q350 divided by 7 is Q50 per day.

Nancy: You’re right! I was only here two days so it should only be Q100.

Craig: She’s probably trying to get more out of you because we’re all leaving and there won’t be more income for awhile.

Nancy: Esperanza, I’m confused. You are charging me Q150 for two nights last week but you only charged Bridgette Q100. Plus, the language students pay Q350 a week. Q350 divided by 7 is Q50 per day, which means I should only have to give you Q100.

Esperanza: Oh, but I charge Bridgette less per week. And I realized after I told her that I had asked for the wrong amount. I asked for too little from last week.

Nancy: Esperanza, the language students pay Q350 a week. Q350 divided by 7 is Q50 per day, which means I should only have to give you Q100 for last week.

Esperanza: Oh, but I charge Bridgette less per week. And I realized after I told her that I had asked for the wrong amount. I asked for too little from last week.

Nancy: Okay, Esperanza, I’ll give you Q400 total for this week and last week.

Esperanza: It’s okay because you’re one of my girls and I hope you will send language students to me and gas is so expensive these days. Aiii, it costs sooo much.

The real answer to this price inflation is Esperanza was loosing three renters in short time, was worried about money, and decided to price gauge me because I’m white, a foreigner, and obviously have money.

It’s hard for there not to be a constant feeling of getting screwed over with these kinds of confrontations. I swear, if I hear one more comment about gas prices I’m going to scream. This is what I get for being forward about everything.

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.

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.

Guatemala City

Every visit to Tikal, I spend time conversing with visitors who inevitably ask me what Guatemala City is like. I always feel like this question is so loaded because every guide book and website and communication about Guatemala talks about how horrible, terrible, awful, disgusting, polluted, oppressive, and dreadful Guatemala City is. Every guide advices people to get out as fast as possible and travel to Antigua, which is a much nicer place to visit. My general answer revolves around the positive and negatives of GC. The positives include several good and interesting museums and a few places to go out. The negatives involve pollution, difficulties and potential dangers of public transit, and general difficulties of negotiating the town. I advise them to see the museums and Central Plaza if they really want to hang out in the capital and otherwise to hoof it out of town. For me, I appreciate seeing two sides of Guatemala, provincial in Tikal and metropolitan… or enormous city… in Guatemala City.

How can I describe Guatemala City?

A constant cacophony of sounds crashes in my ears as I walk along Vista Hermosa Boulevard. Rumbling cement trucks, garbage trucks, semi trucks, and chicken buses cruise by at neck-breaking speeds as if the Boulevard is the Daytona 500 and which ever massive machine reaches Carretera El Salvador will win the grand prize. Only here there are no prizes and the aggressiveness of drivers seems unwarranted and out of place in this upper class zone.

Vista Hermosa is one of the main arteries in town and connects Zona 10 with Carretera El Salvador, rich neighborhoods with other rich neighborhoods with slums just blocks away. High rises and volcanoes loom in the horizon as slowly these hulking concrete buildings pop up in low-lying family units. There seem to be no building codes here just a frantic push towards development, constructions, and moving asi adelante, pues, moving forward. On early mornings or on rare days I can look out from the pedestrian cross walk and see Volcan de Agua’s conical shape rising distantly over the city. Normally, however, a thick layer of grey smog coats the city and obscures even the nearest mountains from view. When this happens only the imitation Eiffel Tower and high rise office buildings near Zona 10 are visible in the distance.

My ears protest as the beastly form of a corroding number 1 bus careens past me. It’s grumbling sound changes to a shrieking cry as the driver takes his foot of the gas, pushes in the clutch, and jams the bus into a higher gear. The grumbling continues until all it leaves behind is the impermeable cloud of black diesel smoke that covers the entire street. I cover my mouth with my sleeve as I walk through the cloud of acrid, dirty smoke. People look at me like I’m crazy, but anything I can do to prevent lead build up in my lungs is something. Synonymous with the smoke, smog, and general overwhelming air pollution of the city, my lungs begin to ache, nose begins to run, and I begin to cough as my body fights the allergic irritation of air pollution. Brian wondered how people can possible exercise outside here – the pollution truly must shorten your life by several years.

I watch as the Number 1 Centro bus hurls down the opposite side of the street. It’s packed so full of people that men are clinging precariously to the front and back bumbers and wheel rims, anywhere they can in order to get to their destination. I always pray those men won’t fall off, get run over, or be trampled by the reckless driving surrounding them. They’re like martyrs for the revamp, red school buses whose lives have been miraculously sustained by replacement parts and acts of God to keep them running. On more than one of those buses the floor is rusted nearly or completely through. Sometimes it offers a view of the pavement whirling away below. Other times the drivers have covered the spongy metal, hot from the engine, with plywood, as if that inspires confidence in the security of the floor.

A car backfiring like a gun shot jars me back into consciousness on the Boulevard. Cars backfiring, firecrackers, and fireworks mark any moment of the day. It seems as though Guatemalans light firecrackers for any and every situation. For me, I am always startled and shocked at this noise that I firstly associate with gunshots before realizing that there is yet another celebration of noise in the neighborhood. Maybe this paranoia comes from the constant stress of hearing deadly stories of life in Guatemala. Maybe it comes from the recollection that only ten years earlier the country “ended” a thirty-year civil war. Or maybe it comes from the jolting reality of hearing gunshots to terrible results in ever quiet and peaceful Moscow this spring. I think it’s the combination but it always makes me so edgy and nervous and exposed to hear these sounds.

Boys no older than 14, who probably only studied until second grade, sit resolutely outside Blockbuster and pitch their collection of pirated DVD’s packed squarely into their worn out second or third hand L.L. Bean and Jan Sport backpacks. “Peliculas, seño? Son originales! Films, lady? They’re originals!” they exclaim as they try to convince me to purchase their films. By original I’m sure they mean filmed in the movie theater, which always reminds me of Mystery Science Theater as people’s heads pop up when they leave the theater to purchase popcorn, soda, or to use the bathroom. I shake my head and continue down the avenue past maquila clothing stores where Koreans sell clothing made in their Korean-Guatemalan factories for less than Q25 per shirt (~$2.00). They are always the latest Latina fashion of brightly colored printed baby-doll shirts with hearts, flowers, stripes, and large plastic butterfly buttons adorning the front. I imagine 20 year olds wearing these shirts that make them look pregnant and 12 years old at the same time. It’s not an attractive image.

The wrinkled lady who sells hot tortillas from a large plastic container sits everyday except Sunday outside Paiz, the grocery store, waiting to sell the corn flatbread to passersby. I stop to talk with her and she greets me happily. Her mouth is full of red gums and broken, jagged teeth. “No le había visto, seño. I haven’t seen you, ma’am. I was wondering when you would bye tortillas again.” She scoops 8 tortillas into a pink plastic sack for me as I dig in my coin purse for 2 quetzales. It’s such a juxtaposition to see this poor woman sitting outside Paiz, owned by Wal-Mart, where all the wealthy neighborhood people purchase their groceries. Across the access road from her are two indigenous women cackling over a small wood fire where they are preparing humble meals of chicken, rice, and beans for the poor workers in the neighborhood. Their eyes have the glazed, bluish grey look of cataracts caused by standing over the smoky fires day after day.

Down the street a Mayan woman sits in the shade with her small stand of avocadoes, papayas, strawberries, and pineapples waiting to sell her wares. I ask the price of avocadoes and while exchanging money she asks if my hair color is original. I tell her it is and she exclaims, “Qué calidad! That’s quality!” It makes me smile as it’s definitely the best compliment I’ve ever received about my hair color. Quality.

There are always these small fruit stands or trucks around the neighborhood. When they drive through the neighborhood the venders announce their produce in mournful, drawn out voices as if there were nothing more serious in life than selling a tomato, lettuce, or oranges (“tomaaaaaaaaaaates, lechuuuuuuuuugas, naraaaaaaaaanjas!”) to the maids of these households. Others drive in their decrepid Toyota trucks and call through loud speakers, “Hay naranjas, uvas, limon.... There are oranges, grapes, limes.” At home I always know which vender is coming by the sound of their voice, the time of day, and occasionally the tinkling bell of the ice cream cart.

In the stores the same people work all day every day. I know all the grocers in Paiz, for example, and they always smile when they see the red head (though I’m sure they think I am blond) come through their aisle. “How was Tikal this week, seño?” they always ask as they pack my groceries in three times as many yellow plastic sacks as is really necessary. Whenever I insist that I don’t actually need a bag they look at me for a good 10 seconds, continue to bag, until I firmly say that I really don’t need a bag, thank you. Then they look at me some more, ask if I’m sure, and as if I’m crazy, hand me whatever small item I’ve purchased. Gringa loca.
It’s funny how insanity is common here like how people drive, fail to learn to parallel park, honk, and generally live in a chaotic, overwhelming style. It must just be the difference in culture for me where I find no sense of normality over the blatant holding-life-in-the-palm-of-your-hand manner that Guatemalans exist. I am constantly amazed, for example, at how they drive exceedingly fast in residential streets, on highways, or in traffic with no seatbelts on. I wonder how there are not more accidents or traffic confusions but people seem to understand the normalcy in the insanity, the life-threatening mediocrity of situations. In this constant threat, fear, and struggle they live, survive, and thrive.

How can I describe Guatemala City to a passing tourist? It is an overwhelming proposition.