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.

Universities in Xela

I would like to share my thoughts on the two main universities in this town. Really, there are seven universities, but I say two because there is the large public university, San Carlos, and my small private university, Rafael Landivar; and the others don’t really matter for the purpose of this anecdote.

At the university my group remains pretty isolated from the Guatemalan students. We only take classes with each other, and the worst part is our classroom is reserved for our use only, is in the corner of the building (the one building makes up the campus) and has it’s own private staircase that is not used by any other students.

Needless to say, we were very interested when my history professor, Vivi, suggested that we have an international dinner with the 35 students from her political science class.

Among these students was Juan Carlos, who had lived in the US for a few years, insisted on being called “JC,” and refused to speak in Spanish with us. Juan Carlos is the son of a Quetzaltenango Congressman and “prefers to live in Guatemala because his family has power and money here” (rough quote). During dinner he invited us all to his beach house, and afterwards in a discoteca he paid for everyone’s drinks and food. He even had the audacity to drop his dad’s name to the owner of another bar (the bar most of us fled to when we realized what a complete dud he was) urging them to stay open past their normal hours for us (which they didn’t).

Another tidbit about Juan Carlos: he was recently in the Guatemalan newspaper because he was arrested for the second time. This time he was found with illegal arms and the last time he was “disturbing the peace” (he was really drunk beating someone up while yelling about his family having money, according to an acquaintance who teaches at my language school). Because of this most recent incident, he can’t leave the country and he can’t drive. Luckily for him, he prefers to be here where his family has power, and he has a chauffer. So, all in all, he’s a general nuisance.

Being a private university in a country where education is a luxury reserved for few, almost all of the students are well off, although not many of them, from what I could tell, are quite as obnoxious as “JC” and his posse. I don’t like this kid one bit, and I like almost everyone. So when I tell Guatemaltecos that I go to Landivar, I’m hoping this image of Juan Carlos is not what that their minds invoke.

Now San Carlos. San Carlos is a university “for the people” (although, as I mentioned before, anyone who makes it to university has more privileges than most other people in this country.) There is one in Guatemala City and also here in Xela.

Many students of the University of San Carlos are involved in a group that has an interesting and very long-standing tradition, involving dressing up head to toe in black and publicly speaking out against the corrupt government. I don’t know why, but this tradition is most strong during the season of Lent. This group actually had a television program last Saturday on channel 4, the same channel that my volunteer organization broadcasts its “Breaking Barriers” program (see post from 4.03.09). I watched for a little bit and I thought they were pretty cool. I liked their message and their renegade ways, and their mysterious masked faces reminded me of the Zapatistas of Oventik, which I recently visited (see post from 25.02.09).

Last Saturday evening I went to play pool with my friends Jordan and Oscar. When we left the pool hall and started walking to where Oscar had parked his car, we saw about a dozen of these masked students coming from their recent shenanigans in Parque Central. I thought to myself—whoa cool! I saw these guys on TV today! I quickly became disillusioned. Surely this is an unequal and unfair comparison, but as they drunkenly approached, I realized that they were dressed very much like the KKK, only with black hoods instead of white. They then began to shout out things (as they will to any foreign girl) that I would maybe expect to hear from many uneducated men here, but not from this group of neo-revolutionaries!

But this group is hardly deserving of such a title. When we were safe in the car (although our safety was never really compromised) Oscar explained to us that in the past these students were like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, but that they have evolved to be just plain bandits. They demand money from the rich and the poor, and pocket the money to throw parties and buy booze. They also demand money from local businesses, and if they refuse to or can’t pay, they paint the building black with petroleum. Eunice, my host mom, suggested that I not go to see the parades, because they all get “bien boro” (really drunk) and they have bottles of urine, which they sprinkle on the crowd like some sort of Holy water! Although I totally admire them for standing up to an unjust system, their atrocious actions totally devalue their words.

So, my judgments are based on far too few people to carry much weight, but I guess the conclusion I’ve arrived at is: There are the posh students of Landivar and the crude students of San Carlos, and both groups can be equally tasteless and offensive.

***The information relating to “JC” and the hooded hoodlums was compiled from many sources. Credit goes to: Eunice Santiago, Miriam De Leon, Ronaldo, Vivian Martinez, Oscar Flores, Carlos Manuel Santiago, and Mario, the kid who sometimes eats lunch in my house.***

Now Dinner is a Winner!

I am surprising myself: three posts in three days… don’t get too used to this, I don’t know if I can maintain this habit…

Normally I just eat dinner with the other three kids in my house, while my parents and the domestic employee eat in the kitchen together watching TeleNovelas.  The other kids tend to just talk to each other when they are together while I smile and try to keep up with their slang (which I don’t learn in school).  This doesn’t really bother me, but I do prefer lunch when it’s just Eunice (my mom) and myself because she sits with me and is super funny and good at making conversation.

The last few nights, Eunice has joined us at “the kid table,” which has been a real treat!  I don’t know if she is just a sit-in (literally) while my host sister is gone this week or if she is planning on gracing our table with her presence more often, but whatever the case, I am really enjoying dinner these days. 

The other non-family member boarder (Ismael, 18) works for XelaPan, the bread tycoon in Xela, but my mom is openly partial to the underdog La Selecta, so this is a frequent yet friendly debate between Ismael and Eunice.  So not surprisingly, last night’s dinner conversation began with talking about bread.  Ismael doesn’t get lunch but can eat any reject bread he wants throughout the day, and thus over the past year since he has worked there apparently he has fattened up quite a bit, and Eunice did not hold back in saying so.  (That might sound awful, but Ismael has boarded with the family for 7 years now so he’s practically a family member.  Also, these words came from a woman who repeatedly admits that she is gordita).

She flat-out asked him how much he weighed and after his response (156 lbs) she looked to me to see what I had to say about that.  Not knowing what else to say, I told her I didn’t think he looked fat, which he thanked me for.  She agreed but told him that he shouldn’t get any bigger because 156 is a good line to hold.  Then she asked me how much I weigh (140, maybe?) and then she looked to the two boys to get their responses, to which they replied I didn’t look fat, and for which I thanked them.  She said I was tall (true) and pure muscle (not true) and that’s probably why I weigh that much, but that I am delgadita like Carlos, probably NOT a compliment for an almost 19-year-old boy.  So then she asked Carlitos how much he weighed (he said 129 lbs, but that seems a bit high).  To defend little bitty Carlos, I said that both of my brothers weighed 125 until they were in college, and that now my oldest brother weighs a lot, but that he (like me ;) ) is pure muscle. But instead of puro musculo, I said puro MASculo, which is a very silly mistake because it translates to “pure more ass.” To this, Eunice repeated what I said and did the motions to accompany the phrase (hands clawing at her butt) while we all laughed at another of my silly mistakes.

So dinner involved lots of laughing, and embarrassment felt by all parties, except maybe by the dear old matriarch.

Volunteering

I started the volunteer component of my study abroad today, and it seems like it will be internship part II for me, only in Spanish. For those of you who don’t know about my internship last semester, it was with a producer for the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer.  As such, I learned the very basics of FinalCut Pro, the software that every big time editor uses (which is to say nothing about my own status as an “editor”).  Another tidbit about my internship: I had very little interest in the media aspect of communication, until I realized that there are good media out there (NewsHour, and the current program I am working with). I thought FinalCut Pro was hard to learn in English, but sure enough, it is even harder in Spanish.  Nonetheless, I can’t imagine being able to do the work that I am doing without my previous and minimal experience!

A little bit about the organization I am now involved in… it is called AMUTED, which is a Spanish acronym that translates to Association of the Development of Women Weavers.  Despite the name, the weaving is more of a secondary aspect of everything they do.  Contrary to what I originally thought, I was placed here because of my major in communication, not because of my love of textiles J 

Quetzaltenango is an urban area in the midst of many smaller rural pueblos, so the workers of AMUTED are able to make trips about once a month to each pueblo to offer their services.  It also serves as a sort of home base for rural women to come to take advantage of some of the same services.  And these services? There are too many to remember and to name, but there are conferences on various things, for example, women’s health, domestic violence, disease prevention, empowerment of indigenous women, etc.  There are also the classes for weaving.  The way I understand it, the weaving is a sort of incentive for the husbands to allow their otherwise privilege-less wives to travel to AMUTED.  This way the women can at least learn a trait that can bring in a little bit of income for the family (which is empowering in itself).  The cool thing about the Mayan culture is it has a strong emphasis on gender equity, but the tragic thing is that it has been overcome by the machismo that is so present in the rest of the Latin American world.

So anyway, another main aspect of the organization (and where my work comes in) is AMUTED TV. It’s on channel 4 of Cable X, which happens to be the cable I have in my house here, so I will be able to watch the programs I work on!  It has indigenous women as the “anchors” and brings in guests to speak about the same stuff I mentioned above.  So, like my internship, my work will involve a lot of sitting in a room watching the same clips over and over, watching and listening for errors, syncing sound, all that stuff.  I really like editing, but am glad that there will be opportunities to actually interact with the women.  If a want and am able to, I can travel to the nearby villages. 

The other two girls who are working at the same place are giving psychological services to the women.  Although they get to work one-on-one with the women, I wouldn’t want these women’s mental health riding on my scant knowledge of psychology!