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.