San Andres Xecul

Today, instead of school, we went to the church at San Andres Xecul, a giant church painted a primary color yellow, with blues and greens and saints and doves and all sorts of designs. From the school bus, decked out with silver grill and flashy colors, we got into the back of a pick-up truck, where we held on and had the wind in our hair for a few minutes until San Andres. Great way to travel.

Once in the town, I talked to a man shelling peas, who hailed from Xela, but who asked me a million questions while laughing good humourdly, and laughed especially I think when I left him and said ¨buen provecho¨, which you are only supposed to say after a meal. From the giant yellow church, full of bloody, white saints, we walked up the steep town road, past an open building where girls washed clothes at cement wash boards (and who laughed at us) to a second, smaller yellow church (blue, green, moss, doves) where Luis, our teacher told us, it used to be indiginous (small church) verse Spaniards (big church).

There was a cross at the top, where a group of people burned incense and had a pretty big fire going. There was a tienda too, and japanese peanuts, salty corn and funny chocolatey things were bought. Plus juice boxes shaped like triangles. Then we walked back down and went home.

Project Warm, meet Plan Frío

This morning, as I laboriously worked out a 300 word newspaper entry in el Nacion, I found out that Project Warm in Bridgeton, Maine, would be pleased to know that in Guatemala, Plan Frío is entirely the same. Handing out blankets to those in need, the plan extends until March, helping poor people and older people through the winter here. And you may laugh, as this is Guatemala, and the temperature only goes to just below freezing at night in the Xela mountains, BUT. Project Warm didn´t actually have deaths on their hands. Here, where murders grace the front page every day, there have already been two deaths from cold in the new year.
Prensa Libre
Indeed, this morning was frigid. Maria and Maia and I sat in a cold kitchen with salvia leaf tea. It´s every morning that Maria says ¨Que Frío!¨and wraps her shawl tighter around her while heating up water. The day time was probably in the high sixties under the sun

Meanwhile, as I sit here in my jacket in the internet cafe most close to mi casa (half a block) that most resembles a garage with the pull down door, about 8 middle school students are playing World of War Craft around me. Maria comes her to instant message her son in Norway, and I use it almost every day. Otherwise it´s primarily the nerdstar computer game corner.

The student life in Xela, Zona Uno

Last night, like the night before, we stayed up late at the house drinking rum. Gabby, the daughter of Hugo and Maria, lives in Burlington, VT, and has been visiting since Christmas. Last night was her last. Maria, after feeding the students and her daughter´s friends (artists, graphic designers, yoga teacher who loves tofu etc) tamales at the kitchen table, Maria began pouring rum and cokes in the comedor. She´s a short woman who speaks sort of like a fast motorboat, and she´d painted her eyelids sparkly purple. One minute she was laughing, the next she was crying into her daughter´s shoulder, loud, bitter tears.

Today at breakfast, over the ever present oatmeal and banana, I think Maria told me that she doesn´t like Juan, Gabby´s Argintinean boyfriend who was also visiting. Though honestly, she could have been saying she doesnt like Juan´s shirt. I spend half the time in the dark.

So Hugo sits quietly, sometimes smoking, while Maria talks and Sylvia, her friend, an english teacher tells me in English that you can´t hide your problems by drinking them away and looks meaningfully at Maria. ¨It´s been tried!¨she laughs loudly. ¨No one can do it!¨

Maria sometimes teaches at our spanish school, Educion Para Todos, and always houses students. Some of my fellow students arrive to drink beers and Maria tells us over and over again how much Educacion Para Todos is like her family. ¨Sarah sabe!¨ She says, gesturing at her body. ¨My family.¨ Gabby and her friends get ready to go out, and one of them promises a trip to the nearest beach next weekend, the one that doesn´t ache of tourists.

The other part of student life is of course, the school. I spend five hours a day, from 2pm until 7pm at the little, unmarked school, Educacion Para Todos. It involves a tiny front office with tea and coffee, a tiny courtyard, tiny bathrooms and then tiny classrooms with bare wood tables that come off the courtyard.

Javier is my teacher. He´s 24, and studies civil engineering at the University of Guatemala in Xela. He wears a necklace that reminds him to follow el Señor´s footprints, and giggles when he asks me if in the United States, on Halloween, guys dress in drag? He giggles a lot, and especially giggles when I mispronounce words that sound like bad ones. I asked him what he thought about the current president. He told me he can´t listen to him because there is something wrong with his throat. Javier pinches his nose and tilts his head. ¨Él hable commo una rana.¨ (little frog). He´s a patient teacher though, a good one. We methodically go through the book. He corrects my accent. ¨Preguntas?¨he asks. And then it´s time for some instant coffee.

The school gets a bit of sun through the courtyard, but like Maria´s house, nothing is heated and everything is made of cement. The last hour of the lesson, after the sun sets, is freezing, and we wear jackets and hats while conjugating verbs. Just like at home, where i wear long underwear, thick socks, pants, sweater, fleece jacket and hat to bed.

Xela´s winter weather is like the desert.

Conan, the tiny little attack kitten, has apparantly attracted admirers. Hugo roams the house at night with a sling shot. The neighborhood cats yowl and call for Conan from the neighboring patios and rooftops. They join in the rousing dog chorus when dark falls.

Hola Xela

If San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico, is Montreal's Westmount, then Xela, Guatemala is just at that line where Westmount turns into NDG. That line is where all the manicured grass, good sidewalk, and well watered impatiens end, and the trash, dust and highway show up.

Or maybe it's like this: San Cristobal is like a trip to Disneyworld, and Xela is the tour of your local paper factory. I'm only comparing them because the windy mountain bustrip, five hours of dynamited cliff, steeply cultivated fields of corn and cabbage and sickening switchbacks reminded me a lot of our trip last winter to the mountain town in Chiapas. There are also a lot of women walking around with traditional Maya dress, balancing bowls of tortillas and tamales on their heads.

Maria and her husband Hugo, who I'm living with here, are not your common Guatemalans. Yesterday, over a breakfast of sweet, milky oatmeal, ginormous banana and good coffee (!) Maria told me no mi gusta la religion. She is emphatic about everything, but this is a passionate subject, and though Hugo has gone through about as many religious fads as exist (my source is a guy at the school who stayed with her last year...we're talking hari krishna, mormanism and the ever popular catholicism) Maria is not into church. She thinks it's done a lot of harm to her country, and puts people in their shivering places.

There are two other students living with us. The house is rambling, my room is by far the most creative, and sometimes Maria and Hugo rent out a front studio room to a random painter.

At night, a chorus of barking dogs (domestico y no) sings me to sleep.

Let the Adventures Begin

I leave January 11th. Check back in a week or so!