The Good Ol' USA

My trip is not yet over. It was supposed to be as of six hours ago, and it will be by the time I publish this post—when I get home and have Internet. (And for artistic purposes, I am going to post this as is, as written in the early morning, delusional from the lack of sleep and food and warmth). It is 4:03 am and I just woke up from the only two hours that I will be able to sleep in the absolutely freezing Houston airport. Under normal circumstances, I would have gotten into DIA around 10 pm, met my beautiful parents at the top of the overseas return escalator around 10:30, and enjoyed the car ride with my chicken Chipotle burrito that I have been thinking about for the past week straight since I emailed my request to my kindly obliging mother. Of course, these are not normal circumstances.

But enough lamenting; I am in this pickle mostly because of my own carelessness. I couldn’t have done it alone though, and I am here with one of my best pals, Shannon Conk, who is lying next to me looking like this:

We don’t have much to keep warm, but when I came back from changing into the long underwear and sweatpants I happened to have in my carry-on that is otherwise host to souvenirs and books, she had cracked into my luggage. She is wearing a pair of cloth shorts over her jeans, the tapestry that hung on my wall in my house in Xela, some woven pants wrapped around her head and neck, and some mittens. (At the time this picture was taken we had not found that beloved last treasure).

So anyway… it is mostly (not entirely) our fault because we failed to check the flight board and notice they changed our gate. We waited at the Dallas-Ft. Worth gate until 8:55 when they started boarding. When we got up to board ourselves, the scanner didn’t work and we were told we were at the wrong gate. And 8:55 was not boarding time for our actual flight, but the scheduled take-off time. Of course, the flight was on time, making it some ten minutes after departure when we finally got to the correct gate.

The other not-my-fault part is that the wrong gate was printed on our tickets. We were also late leaving from the Costa Rica airport because of a rain storm, and my checked luggage didn’t come through, so we spent some time waiting around and working that out.

Having to break it to my parents was hard, and met with the expected response from my dad, relayed to me through my mom (“she can take a taxi home when she gets here”) and greatly disappointing my mom who wanted very badly to see me. (I’m not just saying that… she really did, I swear).

So we were guaranteed spots on the 5:45 pm plane, but we are obviously hoping to make stand-by sometime before that, preferably on the next flight out. The last few days have sucked. After five months of being gone, I was just waiting to leave. I hardly feel like I was in my last destination, Monteverde, Costa Rica. I was too focused on changing my surplus of Nicaraguan money over to dollars, which I couldn’t successfully do because some of my bills were “too feo.” And from there, I knew it would just be to San Jose and then the airport.

These last days were funny. Quite reverse of my first few days of post-semester travel when I was financially dependent upon everyone until I worked out some banking stuff. I suddenly became the group mom, or at least the group sugar momma. With my excess money, I was able to bail many people out, whether it was sharing some of my dinner of tortillas and PB&J, paying for our last hostel, or paying the exit tax of $26 (maybe the most money I have spent in one place at one time since being here). It made me feel better about being such a leech the first week.

The good thing is I don’t have to take a taxi home. My mom cancelled her bridge playing to come pick me up. And my dad cancelled his men’s retreat to see me more than the hour it would have been if he otherwise went. I also have Chipotle waiting for me, which I might just have as a second breakfast, assuming I make it stand-by on the first morning flight. My first breakfast I am hoping will be Panda Express, which may or may not open before we leave.

I am incredibly excited to see everyone, although it will surely not be enough time, being as I leave for Minnesota in just a few days. And here I am wasting my first precious moments in the Houston airport, unable to sleep, which will undoubtedly catch up to me around noon today.

In the meantime I have two books of Sudokus, Ender’s Game, a promised slide show for the Eley family to prepare, and a lot of new music and stand up comedy courtesy of my friend Doug to keep me entertained.

Anything goes...

The last few days of my travels have been a bit hectic--even more hectic than it would normally be with seven 21 year olds with hardly a plan and hardly a dollar (or in my current case, a Cordoba) to spend.

We left beautiful Utila, Honduras early Sunday morning, after missing the afternoon ferry out Saturday while discussing whether or not we should actually pack up and get on it. I, of course, was happy to stay in Utila an extra night. We hopped on the morning ferry at 6:20, which was to start what would be a very long day of traveling.

Angela, who had been having trouble popping her ears while we were diving, did not feel too hot on the ferry. She is never one to complain, but just as we were about to buy our bus tickets from the coastal city of Ceiba to the capital city of Tegucigalpa, she suggested that she might need to go to the hospital instead of board the bus. Travis stayed back with her, while we forged on with our four months of luggage plus some of theirs, and without any guidebook (Angela had the only Central America-specific book). We agreed that one party would e-mail the other party as soon as possible, but Internet availability being what it is here, we had no idea when that would actually be possible.

So we made the 7-hour journey to the capital, took a taxi to a hotel, and were basically on lockdown until the morning. One guidebook (borrowed from some other gringos in the bus) said that certain areas of Tegucigalpa (such as the one we ended up staying in) are “dodgy during the day and downright dangerous at night.” Great. At least we managed to sweet talk the hotel workers into letting the five of us stay in one room with two double beds to save money. Although the beds were at least made, there were piles of freshly chewed sawdust atop them--evidence of termites in the ceiling. There were also pubic hairs beneath the sheets. The TV was locked in a cage.

While looking for Internet, a bank (aforementioned banking crisis was still not figured out at this point) and food, a nice man standing outside the hotel told us that one way was dangerous, and so was the other. He recommended the three chicken restaurants that surrounded the hotel and saving the other two errands for the morning. We ended up cooping ourselves up in the hotel eating beans and eggs inside the hotel cafeteria.

On the way to the bus station, I stopped at a bank and it was closed. It was pretty important that I get to a bank before the bus as my parents had wired me money to a bank that was only on the mainland and I was heading to Managua, Nicaragua as soon as I was in that bus. So I went back a second time and by then it had a huge line. After waiting in that line, I was told that they didn’t do money wires. At least I had Mike, who is the only remaining person who hasn't had any banking problems since our journey. All of my friends were very kind and generous in my times of need.

We rode seven hours in the bus, then were met by a taxista who assured us he could get all five of us plus our 20 or so pieces of luggage into one taxi for ride to Granada. Sensing our doubt, he pointed to Mike and me and said, “two skinny ones in front,” as if that would convince us that this would be possible. The trunk was open with our luggage tied in and down with a rope and we all had our smaller bags on our laps.

It wasn’t too bad, but I did have to shift my weight every time the driver shifted into fourth gear, which was under my left buttocks. While we were stopped at a light, police officers came up to the car and mentioned the possibility of our luggage getting robbed. Our taxista, Edy, said that he would avoid dangerous areas. Then the police officer pointed out that it was totally not legit to have so many people in the car. He justified it by saying we were tourists, and that we was just driving us a few minutes away (it’s an hour ride) and that he would drive “muy suave.” He gave us the latter line again when he insisted that Mike and I did not need to buckle up. No one uses safety belts here, so I think it is somewhat offensive to the driver if a passenger does so, but we did anyway, saying we trusted him but it was just for safety. His response was that we should trust in God. This was a battle he would not win either way.

We took advantage of the second part of the ride by using Edy as our guidebook, asking him about Granada (oldest colonial city in Central America, according to him) and the surrounding area. While pulling in, he thought it was necessary to point out the “turistas,” who he previously characterized as people wearing shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops, as if that was something only tourists wore in 90-degree weather. He pointed to two gringos, and identified them as tourists, and then pointed to a bum and identified him as not a tourist. Thank you, Edy.

Without a proper guidebook, we were left to ask Edy for suggestions on where to stay. He suggested one that was popular for “people with backpacks,” which ended up being full, but the one next to it had many vacancies. The beds were mere thin foam pads set upon metal and wood frames, and there wasn’t a sink. They did offer 10 free minutes of Internet at the Internet café across the street, which I needed since I didn’t even have money to pay for that. When we finally got connected, we found out that Angela and Travis had already managed to beat us here. We took a later bus and blew a tire along the way. They managed to get to the hospital, hop on a bus to Tegucigalpa right after ours left, and get on an earlier bus to Managua and Grenada.

Angela has a very nasty ear infection. She has to walk around with cotton in her ears for the next few days until all of the yellowness drains out.

Wednesday morning, we met up with the other two, ate waffles, switched over to their superior hostel, which has unlimited free Internet (although I couldn't connect to it most of the time), a free daily 10-minute phone call to anywhere in the world but Denmark, and much comfier beds, in addition to being set in a really charming colonial building with sweet murals. I used a computer to contact my mom, by which I found out that she was able to change my 10,000 Lempiras into 10,400 Cordobas. This is $500—money that I had asked for the week before when I needed half of that amount to pay the scuba classes and dives. I am trying to survive on $25/day for the rest of the trip, so needless to say, it is more than enough money.

Grenada was a really charming city, not unlike the two other colonial cities I have been to in the past four months: San Cristobal, Chiapas, Mexico and Antigua, Guatemala. But here, poetry is king. It is the birthplace of poet Ernesto Cardenal, some of whose works we read for my Liberation Theology class last semester.

On a primary school: "Poetry is the conscience of the earth."

Between two residences: "Poetry lives."

So now I am on the island of Ometepe--and island formed by two volcanos in the middle of Lake Nicaragua--reunited with the whole group and with my own money (albeit too much money) to spend. We leave for the beach of San Juan del Sur tomorrow morning, maybe to learn how to surf.

On a different and previous note… we rented an underwater camera our last day of diving, and took a lot of really crappy pictures. They are seriously awful. We couldn’t concentrate on both the photo-snapping and maintaining our buoyancy, but to prove to you all that I did it, that I have breathed 60 feet under water...

The group all together. I'm the third [full] human from the left.

Alex, me, Shannon, and Jordan after one dive and before another.

Our group with our dive instructors.

Dive Gear lined up in a row (photo by Shannon Conk).

Aprovechar- v. to take advantage of.

This is my new favorite verb. It can be used to sum up a lot of my time here in Central America.

In Xela I took advantage of cheap classes. I took 15 hours of weaving classes for the equivalent of $30, went to two weeks of unlimited aerobics classes with my host mom for $6, and took advantage of free public and relatively cheap private salsa dance classes.

Now I'm just taking advantage of being down here. I have no idea when I will have the opportunity to come back here, if at all, and that is why I am spending some time traveling around Central America. It is also why I was in absolute disbelief when my two original traveling compañeras (who also happen to be two of my roommates from last year and for this coming year) independently decided that they did not want to travel at all, but rather return home right after the semester ended. But either way, I am grateful not to be traveling with two people who would rather be somewhere else. I know it would be good to be home and good to see my family and friends, but I recognize that they will all be the same home, same family and same friends when I see them three weeks later! (No offense, homies).

So I was obviously forced to change plans, something that I am [still slightly bitter about but] also trying to take advantage of. My original plan involved traveling throughout Guatemala on chicken busses; visiting fewer sights but spending more time in each place. The upsides of my first plan: I wouldn’t have had to spend the money to change my flight out, I wouldn’t have had to spend so much money on transport in general, it would have be easier to meet people traveling in a group of three, it would have be way easier to make decisions as a group of three, we would get to practice our Spanish almost the whole time, and I would get to know Guatemala a little better.

But I am beginning to see the upsides of my new plan. Now we are in Honduras on the Bay Island of Utila, a colorful little place where almost everyone gets around by electric scooters, golf carts or bikes, with most of the children preferring a skateboardish contraption with two wheels and a swivel in the middle. There is a lot of diversity among the Hondurans--some are white descendants of the early settlers, some are Black Carib/descendants of the slave trade, some are native to Honduras, and many are ex-pats and diving fanatics from all over the world. Utila has some of the world’s best (and cheapest) Scuba diving, which is what brought my travel group here.

I initially foolishly thought that I would save the $250 and just bum around the town for the week while my friends got certified and did their open water dives, but then I reminded myself of my new friend “aprovechar.”

(My penny-wise mother might not appreciate this next part…)

One of our diving instructors, Oralion, reminded us that money comes and goes. We will most likely have the money in two months, but in two months we will not be here. We will be in the United States, where getting certified is more expensive and diving is not nearly as worthwhile.

Until a couple of days ago, that $250 was money that I did not exactly have access to, due to what I will sum up as “major banking complications.” (But thanks to modern technology, we have got it all figured out, right Mom?)

I traded in my $15/hr job as a day camp counselor with Denver Parks and Rec where I would live rent-free at the ‘rents house for a $10/hour job doing similar work up in Minnesota where I will have to pay rent. My parents seem to be worried that I don't have much money now nor will I make much money in the summer. I told my parents that this is the last summer that I will be able to get away with such "non-adult" behavior. I feel really great about what I'm doing now, and about what I'm doing this summer, though my parents might not. But I am going to go ahead and aprovechar this opportunity as well.

Rigoberta Menchú Tardy Disclaimer

Being blessed by Rigoberta Menchú does not win me as many bragging rights in Guatemala as it does in the United States. Many Guatemalans a) don’t know who she is, or b) are totally unimpressed with what she has done.

She is a pretty controversial lady and I’ll do my best to explain what I understand of the situation…

She lied in her book. She said some things that didn’t really happen to her, such as that she didn’t have any schooling, she watched her brother get burned alive by the military, and that her family’s land was taken from them by ladinos, or people of non-native/Spanish decent.

Some guy named David Stoll did all of this research and caused a big stir, especially after she won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992. (Stupid Stoll, cheapening my special moment with Rigoberta Menchú with some stupid facts…)

So here's the gospel according to Stoll: the Menchú land dispute was actually between Rigoberta's father and his in-laws. Her brother was killed by the military, but was not burned alive in front of her. Menchú had the equivalent of an 8th grade education that she received at a Catholic boarding school. (What a cake-eater, right?)

So... I obviously still support her and what she has done but I just wanted to make sure I laid it all out.

And now I’m going to offer some arguments in her favor that I think are legitimate. Some of these points were mentioned by classmates in a class discussion, and some are my own quasi-developed thoughts. (I gladly welcome any challenging or buffering of anything I put forth).

1) She says on the first page of the book, roughly translated, “this story is not only mine, but it’s the story of my people.” For me, this could be translated as ‘this stuff happened not only to me but to others,’ or ‘some of this stuff happened to me, some of it happened to others.'

2) The Western perception of truth may not coincide with the Mayan conception of truth. She grew up pretty isolated from the Western-influenced areas of Guatemala. I can't be sure of what “truth” means to them.

3) A strong sense of community likely played into it all. Community is a huge part of Mayan culture. All of the awful stuff RM describes did happen, although maybe not specifically to her. Could it be possible that the community’s pain was felt as everyone’s pain?

4) Her book was transcribed. RM didn’t know how to read or write in 1985 when she recorded the book with Elizabeth Burgos. It would be a lot harder to tell your story than to write it. I know that I am much more easily able to convey my thoughts by writing them rather than speaking them impromptu. Also, Burgos says in her introduction that she moved material around and omitted some material. You and I don’t know what that omitted stuff says. I'm guessing Burgos would have benefited from telling the most compelling, heart-wrenching story possible. (Not to question the moral integrity of Burgos).

5) Menchú was only 23 at the time! That is pretty dang young! If I had lived through such atrocities and someone approached me and said they wanted to write my story down to bring to light the reality of the 36-year civil war that happened in my country but no one knew about (including many of my fellow countrypersons) I might have embellished a little to make it a little more touching. Have you guys ever lied in a story to make it a little better? (Fact: everything in my blog is completely true). Maybe what she should have done after winning the NPP was reiterate her disclaimer, making it very clear that it’s the story of her people.

Rigoberta is not popular in the indigenous community either. I asked my weaving teacher, Amparo, what she thought about RM. She said that she used her Nobel money for her own interests when she said she would give it back to the poor. Amparo named two interests: her pharmacy, and her political party. I don’t know the whole story, but I personally don’t think pharmacies are too bad. And it seems like getting into politics is a good way to make some lasting change and integrate that change into the system.

The problem is that the lying thing sort of blemishes her political record. Because politicians don’t lie.

No, but really, Guatemala is not ready to have an indigenous person nor a woman as president. Perhaps Guatemala will eventually follow in the US’s footsteps. Shirley Chisholm was the first black woman to run for president in 1972 (but who the heck knows about that?? I do, thanks to Aric Putnam). 37 years later we have our first black president, who knows how many ‘til we have a woman? And who knows how many more until Guate sees the same?? (It will be many, many years, to be sure).

Rigoberta fotos

Rigo' and Me

I am currently reading “Me Llamo Rigoberta Menchú y Así Me Nació la Conciencia,” for my Liberation Theology class. Rigoberta Menchú Tum, for those who don’t know, is a really remarkable woman. She is an indigenous woman from the Quiché area of Guatemala who won the Noble Peace Prize in 1992 for her human rights work on behalf of indigenous people.

The other day, an employee of our language school informed us that Rigoberta would soon be speaking in her hometown. Excited to meet this great lady we have been learning about, a group of 15 of us hopped on a bus this morning to go to Olintepeque, about 20 minutes away.

We didn’t really have any idea what she was going to be talking about, let alone if it would be in Spanish, which, very fortunately for us, it was. It ended up being a grassroots gathering for WINAQ, the political party under which she ran for President last year. (She only garnered 3% of the votes, being an indigenous woman in a machista culture and all).

Everyone there was so gracious. Our large group, which made up a decent percentage of the small crowd, was warmly welcomed in by the host. Our presence was also vocally recognized twice during the various discourses. We even got fed—a popular corn drink called atol and tamales.

We noticed Rigoberta signing some autographs so after we finished eating, we went up to ask her if it would be possible to get her to sign our books. Eventually the 15 of us made our way to her and Alex, most fluent of the group, told her who we were, what we were doing there and what a huge pleasure it was to be able to be in her presence. And then he asked if she wouldn’t mind signing some autographs.

She took my book first, and I was just so unbelievably excited that I started to cry when she asked me how to spell my name. I’m going to blame genetics/my dad. I just couldn’t control myself. What ends up happening (because this happens more than one would think) is I start laughing at the absurdity of my own self, but because I am already crying it just looks like I am crying harder and it’s a big embarrassing mess with end far in sight. Rigoberta was like—What? Is this not how you spell your name? I’m sure she felt really sorry for me, thinking that my crying was made worse by my comrades all laughing at me.

So while my friends are laughing at me, they are also taking pictures, and the cameraman who filmed the whole event started filming me crying/laughing. As Rigoberta was finishing up the last of the autographs, she said something in Quiché to her husband and mentioned to me something about saturation. She took me by the arm and said “Come on let’s go,” in English, and told the rest of the group who was curiously following us that this was only for me.

Her husband handed her a little rosemary-looking plant and we went off behind the building to find a proper spot for whatever it was we were about to do. We climbed through some weeds and she made me kneel to the north. She made an oration in Quiché while she brushed/tapped different parts of my body for about five minutes. Then she made me kiss the plant three times, stood me up, and told me that there was disequilibrium of my spirits and that’s why I was crying. I don’t really know what that means, but I suppose that a normal reaction to being asked how to spell your name wouldn’t be uncontrollable crying, so maybe she’s right.

My friends may have been making fun of me but they are not the ones who got rubbed down with rosemary by Rigoberta Menchú.

Semana Santa

Semana Santa refers to Easter, not Christmas, sillies! The following is a pretty detailed account of my Easter Break, complete with pictures… from my own camera for once!

My parents came to visit. They got in Thursday and I met them at the airport in Guatemala City, where we stayed for a night. We spent three days in Antigua, then went to Panajachel on Lago de Atitlan for two days, and finished up in Quetzaltenango. They left Sunday for Guate City and flew back to the states Monday. It was a good time and I was more than happy to have them here and show them around. Read on if you are not completely satisfied with my brief vacation synopsis.

ANTIGUA

Antigua is ridiculously packed during Semana Santa, with processions and tourists galore. Catholics spend hours making these elaborate and beautiful alfombras ("carpets") out of produce, fresh flowers, and colored sawdust…

The colored sawdust.

Making sawdust alfombras with stencils and a lot of patience.

Loads of flowers.

And then these purple hooded boys (or black hooded boys later on in the week) would come bearing giant statues of Jesus and would trample the alfombras in an instant!

And then immediately after, the clean up crew would sweep up the trampled remains and people would start on another for a later procession.

For my dad, architecture enthusiast, Antigua was love at first sight. He had this huge desire the whole time to peer behind the crumbly facades of the buildings to what he was sure were really spectacular houses. He kept talking about moving to Guatemala and opening up a hotel like the one we stayed in—an old house converted into a beautiful nine-room hotel. I told him if he moved here he would have to learn Spanish (of which he now knows the teeniest bit—huevos, gracias, pan, taller mecánica, café, and y). He replied, and I quote, “I would learn Spanish if I lived here, just like I would learn how to use a computer if I lived on a spaceship.” I cannot think of a more quintessentially Mark Westlund thing to say.

PANAJACHEL

In Pana, we stayed at a secluded hotel set amid beautiful botanical gardens. I complained about the hotel being “too nice” for a while. I think I was mostly hung up on the fact that my dad kept saying that Guatemala is not a developing country, after only seeing three of the most developed parts of Guatemala. And a hotel with two helicopter landing pads isn’t exactly a good representation of the reality of Guatemala. It is a good representation of well-to-do people ignoring the gravity of the poverty here (More than 70% of the population make $1-$2 per day, for example, which would mean we paid more than an average year’s salary for a few nights of luxury). So anyway, after moping about for the first day, I forgave my mom for booking a hotel she had merely looked up in a Lonely Planet and booked because I wasn’t really much help as far as the planning process.

BUT the grounds were undeniably gorgeous and that was something anyone could appreciate. So many lovely and interesting flowers!

A tree with little orange berries and little purple flowers. Those blurry folks in the background are my parents.

Some crazy flower I had never seen before.

More pretty purple flowers.

And another crazy flower I had never seen before!

Not to mention a great dock to watch the sunrise on. My last morning there I bundled myself up in a wool blanket and made my way through the gardens to find this:

The dock and the volcano.

Just my feet hanging off the dock.

Boats and volcanos.

Being so isolated, we got to travel by Tuk-Tuk. I didn’t get a picture, but picture a tricyle-Smart Car hybrid. They are a pretty fun way to travel. We spent one day shopping, which was overwhelming. There are myriad little shops where you get hassled and haggled but they are relatively easy to escape from.

The hardest are the vendors who come up to you because, like shoppers, they are mobile. They are often adorable and 8 years old and know key phrases like, “10 Quetzales more so I can buy a Coke,” or “You promised me you would buy from me earlier but then you bought from her,” or “Please lady, so I can eat.” And once you stop for one, you are almost immediately surrounded by five more. It's admittedly hard to turn down children, but after a semester in Guatemala, I have become someone impervious to their sales pitches.

My parents, on the other hand, were almost constantly surrounded by throngs of children.

Random but awesome photo: My dad in a really tall hat:

Cute pose, Dad.

After stomaching a few hours in the Pana market, we fled home to our secluded garden getaway, which is where my mom realized she did not have her wallet. She had just bought a bunch of gifts in a little store, so she thought she either left it in the store, had it swiped by a very sneaky thief, or accidentally dropped it during the Tuk-Tuk ride back to the hotel. The two of us went back into town to find it with pretty low expectations. We eventually found the last store we bought from and the daughter of the owner lifted up a piece of cloth to reveal my mom’s orange pocket book, which my mom had left on the counter after making her purchases, and which the little girl had hidden in case we returned. Apparently some of my irresponsibility rubbed off on her, but I guess so did some of my luck!

XELA

And then there was Xela/Quetzaltenango. If I would have known that the entire town would be shut down for these last four days of the trip, I would have suggested that my parents start their trip here. I couldn’t show them my university, the weaving co-op where I take weaving classes, XelaPan (the bread store that I support daily), or Bake Shop (the Mennonite-run bakery that has the most amazing carrot cupcakes and chocolate donuts). Most of my favorite restaurants were open so at least we did some decent eating.

I was also able to bring them to the cemetery, of which I know practically nothing about.

And we climbed El Bahúl, which is quite a hike but has a nice view of the city, or about as nice as you will get.

We made it to the natural hot springs one morning too:

We took my host family out to dinner one night as well. It was my host mom, Eunice, my host dad, Rogelio and my host… girl who comes to my house a lot (the granddaughter). I was pretty nervous about the whole thing—Rogelio is really shy and my dad tends to tune out completely if he’s not dominating the conversation. My mom held her own though, and we were all pretty impressed with how much she retained of her high school Spanish. And Eunice being the talented conversationist that she is was a huge help. Overall, I thought the dinner went well.

The pictures didn't turn out great, but here's my parents with most of my host family.

And my host family and me!

Eunice asked my mom what she thought of Xela. My mom told her that the people are really nice, which is true. The city is short of attractive with terrible streets and dodgy-looking buildings and plumes of black smoke trailing most vehicles so that you can literally taste the pollution in the air. After living here for so long, I have begun to think of these attributes as quasi-endearing, but as a guide to my visiting parents, I was reminded of some of my not-so-great first impressions. But the people are undeniably nice! So although Xela may not be a tourist haven like Antigua or Lago de Atitlan, I think it is safe to say that the people of Xela out-shine any others. I will undoubtedly be very sad to leave here in a few weeks.

Lago de Atitlan Excursion

I have spent the greater part of the last two days writing an essay for my Liberation Theology class, so sorry about the uncreative post title.

We had our last group trip this weekend. In some strange way, it was sad knowing that it was the last time we would all pile into a microbus and take turns sitting in the awkward fold-down middle seats with meager padding. We went to Lago de Atitlan and visited four towns around the lake: Panajachel, Santiago, San Lucas Toliman, and San Marcos.

We were only in Santiago for about an hour, which was okay, because there isn’t much to do there. There is a Mayan-Catholic church, and shrine to San Simon. There are a handful of dollish renditions of San Simon throughout Guatemala (one here) and people come from all over to pour rum down his mouth, stick lit cigarettes between his plaster lips and pray for miracles. The Mayans invented San Simon to appease the Spanish conquistadors who were “more civilized” because they prayed to saints. The tradition lived on and this half-saint is prayed to by several Guatemalans today, not only Mayans.

So on with the story... after being followed around the market and pestered for a good while, Laura and I finally hired 9-year-old Andres as our “tour guide” for the short time we were there. He was a pretty good salesman. His sales pitch began by telling us we were going to visit San Simon. When we told him we didn’t want to and started walking in the other direction, he would hop in front of us and say, “Ok, we’ll go this way.” When we tried to ignore him, he held up beaded bracelets and said he would leave if we bought some. He was adorable and was making us laugh and Laura and I really didn’t know where we were going, so we eventually worked out a deal.

Between the two of us we only had Q17, so we said we would pay him Q15 for two bracelets, a tour of San Simon and the Church, and a photo with him (I know, the picture is a little exploitative). During the walk to San Simon, we also worked in that he would have to fight of the drunken men who were trying to kiss us as we passed. He proved to be best at the fighting off the men part. When we got to the church, the only thing he could tell us was the year it was built, which we also found out by looking at the cornerstone with the same date. But look how cute he is:

His company was totally worth money.

It turns out we weren’t the only one cutting odd deals with vendors. In San Marcos, Jordan traded a knapsack, two folders, three t-shirts (one of which was Anna's), his watch, a half-bottle of Pepto Bismol, a half-bottle of Ibuprofen, some sunscreen, some Lysol, a flashlight, a notebook, a packet of pencils and Q150 for a blanket. Unfortunately, I was not present to witness this historical and hysterical barter, but I was present the next day when we were eating lunch at the hotel and the man walked by wearing a Johnnies t-shirt and carrying his blankets on his back. Jordan asked me to get a picture of the two of them shaking hands, which as you can see ended up being them holding hands. The guy asked me if I wanted a blanket but I didn’t have any clothes to trade.

Jordan and "Johnny."

The hotel we stayed at in San Marcos was really nice, with little bungalows situated in a gardeny setting and free kayak use.

The bungalow that Breanna, Nicole, Laura and I shared.

I, along with my roommates from last semester who are also studying abroad here, nabbed the three available kayaks (two singles, one double) to paddle out and watch the sunrise on the last day of our vacation. It was by far my favorite morning since being here, and maybe even my favorite morning ever.

I can’t remember the last time the four of us hung out alone, which is a good thing I guess because there are a lot of other great people on the trip. Nonetheless, it was a great opportunity to catch up and spend some quality time on the lake together. After the sunrise, we made our way to some cliffs that Shannon had scoped out earlier for some prospective cliff jumping.

You may remember that I opted out of the bridge jumping when we visited Semuc Champey, something that I regretted after the fact. There was no way I was not doing it this time. I was a little more at ease in the company of three of my best friends rather than a whole group of 20 others.

Shannon and Ellory scoping out the site.

Ellory was our guinea pig. First she jumped from a low height... todo bien.

Then Shannon jumped from a medium height. Meanwhile, Laura and I are trying to manage the three kayaks and the cast-off clothes, and trying to figure out camera settings. Thus, we were not able to document Shannon’s jump. Then Ellory and Shannon climbed up to the tallest point, probably about 20 feet.

This picture is of Ellory and Shannon “standing on a boat like Leo.” Ellory was clearly the only one of us who planned on going swimming, as the rest of us went in our bottom-most layer of clothes.

With good reason, they were scared, but they were somewhat comforted when a native fisherman paddled by in his rowboat and assured us it was muy seguro--very safe. The fact that he said a specific depth (about 30 meters) made us more comfortable.

When Ellory jumped we were still trying to figure out camera settings. But her picture from the low height is a good one.

Shannon's best. A nice pike that bruised up her arms.

After they jumped and lived, it was their turn to guard the kayaks and take pictures as Laura and I jumped.

My best and....

Laura's best.

One picture I failed to get was one of all four of all four of us, but I think my memory of this perfect morning will serve me well into old age. J

The Luck of the Irish

Last Friday in the middle of the night I climbed a volcano, and it was pretty cool. Unfortunately I don’t have any pictures of my own to prove that I did said event. WHY wouldn’t I have any pictures of this, well the story goes a little something like this…

Three quick notes before I start:

1) I stole the title of this post from the title of Allison’s blog. So excuse me for not being very original, but this is a story about me being lucky [always, but particularly] on St. Patrick’s Day.

2) I don't think I am more than 1/16 Irish, but whatever.

3) I hesitated at the thought of actually writing this post because I could imagine the response from my mom. But the story is a good one so I’m going to tell it anyway.

So not many of you probably know the complete story of my camera, but it has been on quite the journey. (Just a warning—it’s a really long journey, and thus this will be a really long post).

Part I

The journey begins about a week before the trip in late December, when Amelie and I went to see the Widespread Panic and Yonder Mountain concert at the Pepsi Center. As we were waiting for the doors to open, the security guards were telling people they had to leave their cameras in their cars because they wouldn’t be allowed inside the concert. Amelie and I took lightrail, so we we’re out of luck. (We also follow the rules, which we would soon discover was inconsequential because several people snuck in cameras. But that is beside the point).

I called my oldest brother Matt because he is pretty cool and I figured that he might be hanging out downtown like cool older brothers do. He was not downtown and was about to enter a movie with his then-girlfriend (who is now his fiancé!!! That happened a few nights ago!) but said if we couldn’t find anyone else he would come pick our cameras up. I then randomly called my dear friend Paul, because I knew that he had at least one friend who lived downtown, and just maybe he would be visiting that friend and could come to our rescue.

It turns out he was not in the area, but still ended up being our savior. He was meeting up with a friend to go to another concert, and he thought she might be in our neck of the woods. So I called this random girl, who was taking a shuttle to the Pepsi Center at that very moment. She said she would be wearing pink, standing on a bench waving her arms. We didn’t have to wait more than 5 minutes--we walked around a corner and there she was, in pink, standing on a bench waving her arms. She graciously took our stuff, which she and Paul later dropped off in my parents' milk box on their way to their concert. Pretty lucky...

Part II

The second phase of the journey starts after going through security in the Denver International Airport. I quickly gathered my things that were loosely floating around the plastic bin, such as my computer, my shoes, and my camera, which was concealed under my coat. Now I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but based on how the rest of the story unfolds, I’m pretty sure that I managed to keep my camera haphazardly tucked in the folds of my coat, which I then carried in my arms all the way to my gate. I was really excited and really tired and was not thinking about my camera at all, apparently.

When our plane touched down in Houston where our layover was, a stewardess informed us that someone left a pretty nice camera at the gate in Denver. I looked across the aisle at my friend and co-study abroader, Shannon, and literally said, "Ooh, that sucks for that person." Then I thought, that person might be me. I don't know where my camera is. After rifling around for awhile this was indeed confirmed. Luckily, a decent person found it and turned it in. I called DIA to claim my camera and paid them $20 to ship it the few miles to my house, hoping that that would lessen the heat that I knew I would soon get from my parents. Then I called my parents, starting the conversation with something along the lines of, “I’m sooooooooo stupid and irresponsible...” to which my mom eventually replied something along the lines of, “yes, that was pretty stupid and irresponsible.” I then begged her to send me the camera along with various other items of importance that I didn’t bring, such as a Spanish-English dictionary, and ended the conversation with various statements of flattery/self-depreciation (“I don’t deserve parents as good as you”). After waiting for about five weeks, I finally got my long-awaited package. I should mention that packages are frequently lost en route, so for it to arrive at all was very lucky...

Part III

So we come to last Friday night, when we were climbing Volcano Santa Maria. Chris, who has the same camera as me (only with a much less interesting history) finally taught me that my camera has more than the two settings of video and not-video. I was elated that I could now take pictures of cuisine, a fireworks show, a boy kicking a soccer ball and more. I was pretty jazzed because I knew that this would revolutionize the way I take pictures. I took some senior pic-inspired portraits of some climbing companions, some dew-covered plants, and a cow at the base of the volcano while we were waiting for our bus, among other things. I was feeling pretty happy with my pictures.

Now again, lack of sleep plays an important role in the next camera-related blunder. When the bus arrived, I climbed on, sat in the closest seat, and immediately fell asleep, with my camera in the mesh side pocket, a terrible spot as it can both easily fall out and easily be stolen. With my track record, I don’t think it is quite fair to assume that the bus fare collector standing by me took my camera, but I can’t rule anything out I guess. When I got home, once again totally oblivious to the loss of my camera, I fell asleep and basically slept until Sunday morning. My mom had just changed my bedspread to a nice navy one with white dots, and I thought—hey, I’ll take advantage of my party/indoor setting and take a picture of my room, which is both a party and is indoor. And then I thought—shooooooot, where is my camera?

Being surrounded by Catholic students, I at least had some friends to pray for me. Jordan offered a prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of all things lost (I guess): Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and needs to be found. I then went to see our guide from the trip, and he put me in contact with the owner of the bus. Each time I called the driver, he said he would call me later, but I was always the one to call him back. Each time he told me that it was out of his hands, which I fully understood, and that he would try his best. After he dropped us off on Saturday, he began his usual Central Park/Terminal runs, which means a bunch of random people getting on and off the bus at a bunch of random stops. The last time I called him I finally said, “I will pay you if I get my camera back,” which was probably the best thing I could have said.

Sure enough, on the Eve of St. Patty’s day, after I had essentially given up hope on ever getting my camera back, I got a call from the bus man. He said that after a lot of work, he convinced whoever had it to give it back. He asked when would be a good time for me to pick it up, and I said that I couldn’t the following morning because I was going to the municipal dump for class at 8 am. Bu of course, he was going to be the one driving our group there. Perfect!

So yesterday I got my camera back. As I said I would, I paid the man for it, although it was not relatively very much considering that otherwise it would have been a loss of about $200. When I got it back, it had the return address sticker that my mom placed on it removed, and all the pictures erased—I suspect it was just about ready to sell.

So all in all, I’m pretty damn lucky.