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.

The Turtle Liberation Front

As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, changing the sky to brilliant golds, reds, and oranges, humans emerged on the black sand beach and pelicans began swooping along the waves of Monterrico’s Pacific coast. A cluster of tourists stood excitedly by the Tortugario, or turtle hatchery. Their voices rose and fell with the emotion when one of the workers finally appeared with a large plastic tub filled with what, from a distance, appeared to be two-inch pebbles. The worker marched down the steep beachfront and drew a line in the still damp sand. Behind him impressive 5 to 12 foot waves crashed dramatically against the volcanic beach. The tourists clustered behind the line, eager to hand over their vouchers and receive one of those mysterious moving pebbles. Each one exclaimed as a tiny, freshly-hatched sea turtle was placed in their palms.

The baby turtles looked terribly fragile in their saviors’ hands. Their small gray bodies blended perfectly with the volcanic sand of the beach. In the people’s hands they moved their tiny flippers, ready to be liberated into the great Pacific Ocean. The worker announced it was time to release the turtles and each person squatted and placed their precious turtles in front of the line drawn in the sand. The worker emptied the rest of the hundred or so turtles from the bucket and the mad race began.

Each of those tiny turtles was programmed to flipper their way to the sea. Slowly they inched their way down the steep beach towards the crashing waves. Their small flippers pushed them across the black sand towards the ocean. Yet with every slamming wave the little turtle bodies were tossed and twisted with the waves. Some of the turtles could strain their flipper muscles against the waves force and propel themselves to the safety of the ocean. Others were tossed further up the beach where they had to begin the arduous liberation process anew. Finally more and more of the turtles made it to the sea and only the stragglers were left behind. A little boy in red trunks hurried forward and reoriented the stragglers towards the sea. This independent member of the Turtle Liberation Front insured that the remaining turtles were washed into to the fierce ocean.

Finally all the tiny bodies had been washed out into the ocean to meet their coming fate. Perhaps some would be eaten by pelicans and other fish. Others might not survive their first hiatus into the Pacific. Only 5% of those recently hatched turtles would survive to adulthood. Those 5% would continue to propagate and save the turtle species… as long as they could avoid their largest threat, humans. The Turtle Liberation Front watched as night fell on the Pacific and wished their liberated turtles the strength and fortune to survive in the wild world.

Tajumulco

The dark and the thin air pressed in around me. At base camp the air was still below freezing and dawn was hours away. The nineteen other hikers, three guides, and I stood huddled by the tents waiting for Justin, the leader, to indicate it was time to attempt the summit. I shivered as I stood in the predawn morning wondering if this hike would be as strenuous as Saturday had been.

On Saturday morning we Quetzaltrekkers had all awoken at 4:30 am hopped on two chicken buses, and transported ourselves towards Mexico and towards our destination of Tajumulco. We had hiked from 3000 meters to 4000 meters over the course of six hours. Each step up the hill grew slower and more arduous until the final half mile took nearly 45 minutes to complete. I had stayed at the back of the group with some other hikers and a guide where I resolutely climbed 5-20 steps before stopping, panting, for breath. “Slow and steady wins the race, Nancy,” I kept reminding myself, grateful that it was not actually a race of this peak. Although it was exhausting, each time I looked back at Asier, the guide, I smiled. It was thrilling to be on the mountain, in alpine air, in pine forest, amongst lupine and alpine grasses, and staring out at the amazing landscape Guatemala has to offer. Thrilling but harder than any hike I had ever done before. What would Sunday have in store for us?

I looked up at the looming black shape of Tajumulco. We had to climb 220 meters to summit before the sun rose over the horizon. Finally, Justin, the lead guide, indicated it was time to hike. I clicked on my headlamp, got in the middle of the crowd, and started the hour climb to the summit. Almost immediately my lungs began to protest the physical strain of low oxygen and the steep climb ahead of me. A steady stream of clear mucus began dripping from my nose onto the rocks below. As I ascended, I determinately and fixedly stared at the pool of light illuminating my next step. “It’s just like climbing, Nancy. Just focus on your next move and mind that foot placement,” I thought as I resolved to move steadily uphill. Slowly the meters melted behind me as I took careful steps up the rocky slope towards the summit. Two hundred meters… 190 meters… 150 meters…. My breath came at slow, regulated pulses made to match my determined march up Tajumulco. The rock turned to loose pebbles, boulders, and scree. I pulled with my arms and pushed with my legs, forcing out the final 50 meters to the summit. Finally, I could see the rock falling away from above me, the slope flattening out, the stars glimmering overhead, and the thin golden line of sunlight to the east. We had made it! A grin burst over my face as I realized I had reached the summit of the highest peak in Central America.

Hanne and I bundled up in sleeping bags and huddled behind a boulder out of the wind to watch the sun come up. A sea of clouds swallowed the mountains below us, reminding me that Tajumulco means “above the clouds.” What an appropriate name. The crystal clear sky became a palette of colors as the sun moved gradually into the eastern sky. Profiled on the horizon sat a line of dynamic volcanoes stretching from Antigua and Lake Atitlan to Xela. Occasionally great bursts of ash would rise from Volcanes Fuego and Santiaguito, two of the most active volcanoes in the country. The cold air sucked the heavy sheets of clouds into the valleys below, making the sky look like a great river of clouds. Behind, Tajumulco’s blue shadow fell over Tacana, the second tallest peak, darkening its tall, stark form.

I breathed in the cold, pressing air, and found satisfaction in the wind whipping around the peak, the brilliant colors exploding from the sunrise, and the magnificent view that stretched from the volcanoes of the east, to Mexico, and to the Pacific Ocean. It was heaven to see this glimpse of the world from Tajumulco, the tallest mountain in Central America. I had bagged my first peak and what a peak it was.

Mañanitas

At Tuesday’s Rotary Peten meeting, the club realized that two of their club members were celebrating birthdays on Saturday. Since Don Pedro is a professional mariachi singer, what better way to celebrate than to have mañanitas and sing mariachi songs for the lucky birthday boy and girl?! This is what happened on Saturday morning.

The tinkling alarm of my Nokia cell phone startled me out of my profound sleep. Was it 3:45 already? I groaned, clicked on my headlamp, check my sandals for cockroaches, and switched on the overhead light. It felt like I had fallen asleep moments before; how could it already be time to wake up? I shuffled into Flor’s bathroom to wash my face and prepare for this early morning. At least I am used to getting up at 5:00 am when I’m in Petén, I thought, 3:45 isn’t that different. The shukos, or hotdogs, I’d eaten the night before grumbled in my tummy. Shukos are cheese-filled sausages covered in guacamole, cabbage, mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup, and laid in a toasted bun. They’d been delicious the night before, but they, like I, protested this early morning wake-up call. I lay back on my bed, waiting for Flor to stumble out of her room. It was time for mañanitas with Flores’ Rotary Club.

Frantically, Flor rushed out of her room at 4:15 talking loudly to Don Pedro, “Ayyyy, me pasó la hora! Ahorita llegamos! I just woke up but we’re on our way, Don Pedro!” Outside Javier’s white diesel pickup rumbled up to the house. We rushed from the house and hopped into the truck to pick up Don Pedro and his stereo equipment. Flor stayed on the phone calling all the Rotary members to meet at Doña Aida’s house to begin her birthday right or at least really early. The caravan of cars rolled across the gravelly, pot-holed streets of Santa Elena until we reached Doña Aida’s humble house. The men hauled Don Pedro’s stereo system on the roof of the pickup while Flor pulled out a pack of fire crackers from the back of the truck.

With a loud burst of explosions and white-hot sparks, the fire crackers gave a shocking wake-up call to the still dark and silent night (except for the dogs barking and roosters calling but they’re a regular morning feature in Peten). Don Pedro, in his moment, announced the lucky birthday girl and began singing his heart out to Doña Aida. All us Rotary members cracked up at the noise and commotion as we waited anxiously for Doña Aida’s sleepy face to immerge from the house and announce the end of her manañita. Her whole family appeared at the door as we shouted, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS Doña Aida!!!” Then, we all tumbled back into our cars, with the birthday girl’s family in tow to celebrate the next Rotarian’s birthday.

Down more dark, early morning streets our caravan drove until we reached San Benito and Julio’s house. The routine repeated itself. Loud ruckus of fire crackers exploded in front of Julio and Sofi’s door spraying sparks and shredded newspaper all over their door step. Don Pedro began his deep mariachi singing to Julio (“Y sigo sieeeeeeeeeendo el reeeeeeey!”). We shouted and hooted for Julio to let us in to wish him a happy birthday. Finally, Julio and Sofi opened the door to the mañanita crew and we tumbled, muddy footed, into their living room.

The women busied themselves in the kitchen heating tamales and coffee, unwrapping the hot cornmeal from the banana leaves, placing them on plates, and passing them to the 14 hungry people waiting in the living room. Julio tuned in music on the radio and settled on techno, adding to the already frantic, heart-stopping morning of fire crackers and mariachi songs. We ate and boogied at 5:30 am in Julio and Sofi’s home. These Rotarians from Peten know how to celebrate birthdays. By 6:30 we began to yawn and think of the days obligations. It was time to go home.

Five Months

Another month is done here in Guatemala. This month has led me to thinking about how time ebbs and flows, how it seems to change me as much as the light changes every day.

Beautiful long shadows, clear skies, and golden light characterized this month. I loved watching shadows elongate and land features illuminate with the near-winter light. In Tikal, the temples glowed golden-red by four in the afternoon. I wished I had my camera, but as Brian said, nothing can really capture the power of those buildings.

My heart filled with the sight of one of my best friends, getting to know her dad, and meeting invigorating and inspiring people in Tikal.

Here are the ebbs and flows, comings and goings, successes and hardships of this month:

1. Brian left, closing that happy chapter in Guatemala, but opening a new chapter for him in Patagonia, Chile.
2. I took advantage of the closing semester and traveled to Atitlan, Tikal, and Antigua.
3. The semester finished finally. No more school in Guatemala for me!! I made a vow in Ecuador never to take classes at a foreign university again. I broke that promise here, but I’m back to reinstating it! Nancy, NO MORE class for you!
4. We exchange students bonded, just before the other two left. Their time in Guatemala is done, but exploring how Guatemala has changed them is just beginning. They expressed their own love/hate relationship with Guatemala.
5. I realized going to Café Barista several times a week is worth the money just so that I’m out of the house.
6. Hanne and Pibs came to see me. We hiked an active volcano and hung out in Tikal.
7. I decided to grab the brass ring.
8. Spanish interviews now total 31. English interviews are at 40. I’m done!
9. It rained so much in Peten that Hanne asked if my hands and feet grew webs. They probably should have, but with my trusty raincoat and pack cover I survived.
10. My lungs are protesting the heavy layer of pollution in the city. I always cover my mouth when I go outside and people look at me like I’m nuts. I don’t want to say when I go back, “I’ve got the black lung, pop!” (Zoolander)
11. I realized I’m not the only one who feels tension in Guatemala. I met a young woman in Tikal who lived by the Lake who said, as I have said countless times, “I was just over it. I always felt so much tension and thought at any moment someone would just start shooting. I left two months early.” My jaw dropped. That is exactly how I feel.
12. This same young lady and I also shared the feeling that Peten is an infinitely happier and safer-feeling place than southern Guatemala.
13. In Peten men asked every day if I was going to get married when I go back to the States. Women stated that I would find a Guatemalan, get married, and stay here. I shook my head violently and generally exclaim (at least in my head), “HELL no!”
14. I felt included by Guatemalans (in Peten, of course) in social activities and didn't feel like I was invited out of politeness.
    
15. I still have to hold my breath when I walk by security guards with their huge guns.
16. I threw up for the first time in three years. That was fun. Nothing like food poisoning to make your day.
    
17. Hanne showed me where the US embassy building is. I finally know where to go. It’s on Avenida Reforma and looks like a tank.
18. I’m curious about how this tense and lonely experience in Guatemala has changed me. It’s going to be a trip for the next few months.
19. At five months, I’m on the downward slope. The count down continues.
20. I’m going home for Christmas in 19 days.

Pollo Campero

National pride in Guatemala appears to revolve around two products: 1) Gallo Cerveza and 2) Pollo Campero. Everyone consumes them as if they are part of the national anthem and pledge of allegiance to Guatemala (imagine: “Gallo Cerveza y Pollo Campero confiamos en ustedes! Somos orgullosos de nuestros productos nacionales! Gallo Beer and Country Chicken we trust you! We are proud of our national products!” I can hear the jingle now). They certainly are formative parts of their culture.

I remember when I first moved to Guatemala all people talked about was how I just had to eat Pollo Campero because it’s sooooooooo good. I ignored these Guatemalans for months because I didn’t want to do what everyone does and eat the Pollo. Everyday someone would ask me if I’d tried Pollo Campero and I would say no. “No!” they’d exclaim, “You have to try Pollo Campero! You can’t leave Guatemala without trying Pollo Campero!! WHY haven’t you eaten Pollo Campero yet!???” After every encounter my head would spin at their firm and loyal exclamations about fried chicken.

It was months before Pollo Campero came to me. In Flores, Peten, at the end of September’s data collection period I was staying with a Rotary family who ate good chapín (Guatemalan) food. On my last day we drove to the Pollo Campero truck (they don’t have a restaurant in Santa Elena) where Flor hopped out of the car and trotted up to the Pollo truck (like a taco truck but less cool). She came back carrying containers of fried chicken, tubs of cole slaw, a bag of cheap white bread rolls, and a two-liter of Pepsi. Right on. It was time to try the Pollo.

At the lunch table the whole family got right into their chicken. “Mmmm, nothing beats fried chicken and nothing is better than Pollo Campero,” they exclaimed. Mmm…. It’s decent as fried chicken goes, but Guatemalans have an insane level of pride in their national fried chicken.

Back in the capital, now that I’ve had my Pollo Campero cherry broken, I occasionally order the Pollo Campero meal for take out because nothing beats fried chicken. Only once have I stayed and that was to initiate Nick and Brian to the experience. You see, you can’t leave Guatemala without having eaten at Pollo Campero!

Walking into the restaurant is instant chaos. The restaurant is always busy. And I mean always busy. No matter the time of day the restaurant is packed with Guatemalans happily gnawing on chicken legs, dunking champuradas (like a cookie) in sugary coffee, and licking soft serve white and pink ice cream cones. People are happy to be in Pollo Campero. It’s a privilege to eat at the nation’s most popular restaurant. They are proud of their Pollo Campero!

Dozens of bustling employees dressed in immaculate khakis, bright orange hats, and orange and yellow Pollo polo shirts dart towards you directing you to empty seats, handing you brightly colored menus and scattering to other calls being shouted through their radio headsets (whose heard of sit-down-before-you-order fast food?). Waitresses take orders on electronic pads meaning your order of the Pollo Campero combo (two pieces of fried chicken, one small fry, one unhealthy white roll, and a small Pepsi cola) is instantly relayed to the five guys waiting to fill orders. Five seconds later (literally) out comes a tray full Correl indestructible plates laden with the grease bomb order. There’s hardly time to breath before your order is ready. I can picture the staff in the back high-fiving at another successful 5-second delivery of fried chicken.

There is always some orange and yellow employee bustling around mopping or sweeping the floor right under your feet, hovering around to take your plate the instant it is chicken-less, or waiting expectantly for you to order their delicious coffee and champurada snack-time offering. It’s always time for refacción, or snack hour, in Guatemala, and what is better than a tummy full of fried chicken topped off with coffee and champuradas, pues.

Pollo Campero is really something. It’s the Bonanza, the Texas Steakhouse, the McDonalds, or the KFC of Guatemala. But, as Guatemalans so frequently say, “Oh, but it’s so much better than KFC! I had KFC once in the United States and Pollo Campero is just soooooo much better than KFC, pues. Sí, vos, mucho mejor, Pollo Campero. We used to take it on the airplane when visiting family in the United States, vos. That’s all they wanted from Guatemala was Pollo Campero because it’s sooooo good, vos. Pues… sí…delicioso.” It is considered a sacrilege not to consume the Pollo Campero.

It is also probably the most common place to take a girl out on a date. I mean, who could resist the irresistible smells of fried chicken and a date at the country’s most popular fast food restaurant? I, for instance, have now officially been asked on two dates to Pollo Campero. The latest happened just today. I was walking down my street towards home when the new little guard for the thirteen story apartment building trotted across the street saying, “Ah, yes! You live around here? Oh yes, I thought, I hadn’t seen this blanquita, this little white lady, before. Oh, yes. I will take you out to Pollo Campero on a date? Just come by? Give me your phone number and we can go to Pollo Campero.” I tried not to laugh because I suppose that takes a lot of guts to just ask some random white girl on a date. As politely as I could I said I was engaged (I’m not) and continued my walk down the street as the guard said, “Pues… sí… Pollo Campero! God bless you! Just give me your number and we can go to Pollo Campero… sí, pues....”

Pollo Campero… national pride. Hooking guys and girls up for decades over a hot plate of fried chicken.

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.