Act I

If my first three weeks here were the prologue to the story of My Time in Guatemala— this story with as-yet-unknown length and plot, motif and themes— then I feel as if I am entering Act I.

My roommate arrived, and this naive newbie became tour guide, a relative expert. ("Oh, sure, you can get tomatoes here," I say, "but they come in shrink wrap. And the bright-pink, spiky fruit of comparable size you can only buy from Kaqchikel-speaking vendors at certain times of day and in certain spots by the docks and on the main street are so much better, and far more filling...")

It's exciting, but this transition into routine has brought with it some accompanying weariness, and new negatives. I crave things I won't be able to access until I visit the States— movie theaters and Indian food chief among them— and my yearnings are perhaps magnified by the certainty of prolonged deprivation. I miss things I thought I wouldn't: neuroticism, timeliness, being able to walk down the street anonymously. As I set up my classroom and prepare for the school year, I miss many things I thought I might, things that need to exist—but not, perhaps, in their current American manifestations: curricular mandates, governmental oversight, Child Protective Services, diagnostics and resources for learning disabilities. Perhaps most poignantly, I miss things— geographical grounding, having exactly the vocabulary I need to say whatever I want— whose absence and inverse gives me joy. And I miss most fervently the aspects of my old life I knew I would: my friends and my family foremost, and then, a rung belong, cultural know-how, disposable income, books. I miss a sense of situatedness. And clumping cat litter.

And I had my first truly frightening experience: with a tuk tuk driver whose advances were insistent and aggressive. (He ultimately accepted my firm NO before anything terrible happened, and I am fine now, but my strolls throughout town are now considerably less carefree, and less naive— which, at my more glass-half-full moments, I realize may be ultimately antidotal.)

In other news, all the teachers are now here, the school had an open house, and school starts one week from today!

I am beginning to set up my classroom, which consists of two very small, connected rooms. The process is exhausting, but so very exciting.

 Here is the book nook, where we'll do all of our reading and literacy activities:

And here's the other room. The kids' portraits will go under this sign.

(View from the back:)

This is a view of the elementary yard:

I'm particularly proud of this guy:

To those of you who have donated for iPads for my classroom, thank you so, so very much. I am so touched by your generosity.


Also, it has still not stopped raining, but my roommate and I took a boat across the lake anyway.

Onward! More soon.


*       *       *

And: photos have been updated.

I took a boat to a small Tz'utujil village

It's been raining like crazy. This type of rain doesn't happen in Boston, or in California. I've experienced rain like this in the South, but— thanks, American building codes!— I've never had the rain and the thunder shake the house like it does here.

So when it was sunny yesterday morning, I took the opportunity to flee across the lake. I went to the docks, tried (and failed) to haggle down the price of a trip, and took off— 

—45mph across the lake in a tiny blue motor boat. There are five towns scattered around the perimeter of the lake, which can be seen from the water.

I chose to go to San Juan La Laguna, a tiny village which is 95% Tz'utujil-speaking Mayan.

The town is stunning.

*To see the full album of pictures of my afternoon in San Juan La Laguna, click here.

As I was leaving, a villager, who had never used a camera before, took my picture.

Setting Up; Settling In

At this point, living here seems more and more like living and less and less like an exotic adventure at every turn.

...Though there are, of course, daily adventures:

• Going to the hardware store to buy paint, and finding that in order to buy anything, one must sit down at a desk and have an extensive conversation with an employee, who then brings out each item one by one from the back for you to inspect. At the end of this conversation, one must go to several different check-out stations to buy each item individually.

You know how when you're learning about different cultures you're always told, "It's not good, it's not bad, it's not weird— it's just different"? Well, yeah. Sometimes things are weird. And make no sense.

• The ongoing linguistic adventures. I often find myself straining to think of words, some of which I just forget in the moment ("It's like clothing... but for your hands!" "Gloves?"), some of which I miraculously remember just when I need it (the word for "pet" when I'm asking a random person on the street where to find the pet store), and some of which I never knew in the first place. (This process reminds me of the brilliant series, Lernen to Talk, which chronicles one man's efforts to learn German.) I find that my everyday life is more of an intellectual workout; I have to perceive and then describe the same phenomenon in a number of different ways so that I can be understood. My high school English teacher once noted that non-native speakers often speak more poetically than native speakers, because they may not know the most direct way to say something, so have to reach for the long way around, the quirkily descriptive, the metaphorical. I know I sound in turn awkward, poetic, and just plain stilted when I try to describe certain things here. It's tiring but it's kind of fun, too.

• Taking it all in stride, such as the fireworks that went off above my roof from 9pm to 1am the other night. In another context, I would have thought they were gunshots. Here, though, it was just an enthusiastic celebration of The Assumption of Mary, a Catholic holiday I had never heard of before Thursday, when I suddenly learned all about, very loudly.

• The slow process of boiling down my American life to its bare necessities, and adjusting to a totally different context. Every morning I delete dozens of e-mails that were relevant to my life in the States, but are totally meaningless here: e-mails proclaiming the the Gap is having a sale, or that my college alumni group is hosting an event in Boston, or that I could save 50% on a weekend trip with Orbitz, or 60% on a magazine subscription!

• Re-configuring, financially: I make one-fifth the amount of money teaching here than I did at my last job in the States. Though things locally cost far less— this morning I treated myself to a full breakfast at a restaurant (I needed to get out after being shut in by the rain!), and spent a little under $2— I have had to recalibrate items that are on an American scale. I have to go to Guatemala City twice in September (more on that when it happens), and am trying to figure out a way to get there without paying a $30 shuttle fare (which caters to American tourists) each way— because this is, realistically, out of my reach. I just renewed my digital subscription to the New Yorker, which tucks me into bed every night, which was a huge expenditure by Guatemalan standards. (I've decided it's the one thing I'll splurge on, because it makes me so very happy.) There are so, so many earrings sold on the street here, which are so beautiful and interesting and inexpensive— they'd be $60 a pair in the States, and sell for $2 here!— but I have to be very careful about how much I spend. Suddenly the "but it's $2!" proclamation carries a lot more weight than it did before.

All is to say: I'm settling in, getting acquainted with life— and my life— here. Every day this week I've been going to the school to help set up. This past week, I painted the entrance.

I am trying to raise money for iPads for my classroom — please consider donating! Any little bit helps!

I have started a fundraising campaign to try to raise $3,000 for iPads (and cases, headphones, and educational apps) for my students. Thanks to the extreme generosity of many, we have already raised $1,781! (To those who have already donated, thank you so, so very much.)

The donation site can be found here:

http://www.gofundme.com/ipadsforK1

I am raising money because, as I set up my combined kindergarten/first grade classroom at the Atitlán Multicultural Academy, I realize how severely constrained by a lack of materials and resources we are. There is a small library for the school, but extremely few books that will be appropriate for my very young students. Most of the students are Mayan— and many are sponsored by Americans who pay 100% of their tuition, meal, and travel costs— and travel long distances from the mountains to receive an English-language education that will enable them to escape the cycle of poverty and lack of education that have plagued their families for many generations.

I am realizing that if my students had access to iPads, their worlds would be expanded immeasurably— they would not only have access to texts appropriate for their individual levels, they would have access to educational software that would address their reading and math levels, creating individualized instruction for each student. The possibilities afforded by this technology would truly be immeasurable. This is the case in any school, but it is especially true here, where students don't have access to books or libraries with the educational materials they need to learn and write.

Please let me know if you have any questions, or want to let me know anything.

Again, the site can be found here:

http://www.gofundme.com/ipadsforK1

Any little bit you can spare helps! Each donor will receive a personalized, hand-written thank you card made by a very grateful kiddo! (The cards will be sent as soon as a teacher from the school goes back to the States so they can be sent— there is no mail here!)

Please consider donating any amount you can— $10 is $10 closer to the goal! Thank you so very much! 

Here is a picture of some of my students. (You can tell that they are all thinking about how excited they are to learn to read and write!) How could anyone resist those faces?

Spotted: Tall Blond Mayans with Impossible Proportions

Yesterday I came across these Barbies wearing traje típico Maya— typical Mayan dress— being sold on the street by a Mayan woman who was dressed (as almost all Mayan women here are) just like these dolls.

This sight struck me deeply. It seems to speak to so much— race; globalization; gender; cultural identity and appropriation...

I won't even attempt the 1,000+ words. I'll just put it here.

Snow! and: Volcanoes!

First things first: 

I've updated my photo album! Click here to see some pictures of the lake and the volcano.

And: please note that if you get the e-mail blast about updates to this blog (and if you don't, but you'd like to, let me know!), it only comes on Monday mornings, regardless of how many posts I've posted during the week. I didn't want to annoy people with e-mails every time I update. So check back frequently!


                                                                        *       *       *

Everything here is pretty darn great, except for one thing: I am lucky enough to have an infestation of what my landlord calls "house terorrists." These terroristas are spiders the size of my hand. And this is awfully ironic, since spiders (and large, multi-legged creatures in general) were an acute fear about moving here in general. So far, I haven't gotten (more than slightly) sick, and I feel very safe walking around, and, thanks to the friendly people I've met and my books and my trusty internet stick, I haven't been lonely. But this lifelong arachnophobe's worst fear has come true: huge, disgusting spiders everywhere in the house. It's gotten to the point where I am constantly nervous whenever I am home. (But, people ask: surely the cat— this animal that eons of evolution have supposedly developed into a fierce stalker of small prey— helps? No. No, she does not.)

As I try to explain the situation— and the severity of my anxiety— to my landlord in Spanish, I realize that situations like these are the ones that stretch my linguistic abilities to the limit. It doesn't help, of course, that while I'm desperately searching my brain for the translation of "caulk" I'm fighting off tears borne of frustration and fear.

So: my landlord has been trying to fix the problem by sealing off all the various entrances of the house with foam, which makes the place look like the set of a Christmas pageant designed by people who have some removed familiarity, but certainly not firsthand experience, with snow.

(When we were watching the process of sealing off the windows in my bedroom, my landlord's ten-year-old son asked me: "Is that really what snow looks like?" I said, yes, kind of, and then my landlord pointed to the litter box and remarked, "Wow, your cat really needs a lot of food!" I explained that that is the cat's bathroom, at which point both my landlord and his son looked at each other in amazement. The landlord then explained to me that he had assumed that the cat would just do her business all around the house, to which I responded that I was extremely grateful that he let me sign the lease, considering this was his assumption...)

*       *       *

In other news, yesterday I went wandering and I discovered a way to get to Lake Atitlán. (I was looking for el mercado, where Mayan women come from all over the region to sell textiles and food, so I can finally buy some fruits and vegetables— I've been eating out for every meal because I am afraid of my kitchen, both because of the spiders [where my landlord thinks he discovered two nests] and because I don't trust myself to properly disinfect the water or fruits and vegetables), but wound up stumbling upon the lake. I crossed the Guatemala-Korea Friendship Bridge (!), and found myself on a very long stretch of river and beach, on which there were many components of the juxtaposition of wealth and extreme poverty that characterizes this region.

I walked perhaps a mile or so toward the lake, and then wandered through winding streets lined with people selling ice cream, licuados (sweet, pulpy fruit juices), and textiles, and came upon an area catering to tourists, filled mostly with hotels and restaurants with stunning views.

I sat on the edge of the cement stairway leading to this restaurant for a while and drank from the liter of water I now know to bring with me everywhere. Then I meandered back into the main part of town, where, sweating profusely, I sat on a ledge for some time, drinking my water. I got out my book (Ann Patchett's State of Wonder, a fascinating novel about a woman who travels to Latin America alone and has some misadventures... I might have to put it down for a while until the point where navigating the everyday here ceases to feel like a grand and challenging adventure), and, within seconds, an older white woman wearing a ridiculously large hat and round purple sunglasses came up to me, paused, looked me right in the eye inches from my face, and yelled, "ENGLISH!?" I answered that, yes, I speak English, and asked her if she needed help. "Oh my goodness gracious, God has answered my prayers!" she exclaimed, her accent heavily Southern. She then explained that she was trying to get to San Marcos, and asked me how to get there; I said that unfortunately I didn't know, but I could talk to a tuk-tuk driver (here is a tuk-tuk, a little red three-wheeled vehicle, one of the hundreds of which roam around the town, and which cost five quetzales per person, regardless of distance traveled)

on her behalf. "Oh my Lord Jesus," she sighed, "my prayers have been answered." We went to talk to a tuk-tuk driver, and not much was clarified— he didn't know what ferry she was talking about— but she seemed hugely relieved nonetheless. As she got in and zoomed away, she yelled back at me, "Goodbye! Enjoy your life!"

First impressions of Panajachel

Yesterday I spent the day roaming the streets of Panajachel, and I have taken pictures for you all! Some are included below, and then I've posted a link to a whole album at the bottom.

The house is absolutely beautiful. It has maize-colored walls and a patio with a hammock and coffee, avocado, and mango trees. It feels straight out of a fairy tale, or a Lorca story. 

(The house also has giant spiders, though, which, as some of you know, was one of my primary fears about coming here, so... yes. Some sleep has been lost after a few scuttled out of view and I spent hours worrying I was going to wake up with one on my face. But: facing fears! This is a theme of this year! So... check!) There was a small earthquake (which didn't wake me up) the night that I arrived, and the running water went out the following morning, but after my (extremely affable and competent) landlord, Rodrigo, spent about eight hours working on the problem over two days, I have running water again. (The water can't be drunk— I have oodles of bottles of water to drink and cook and clean plates and brush my teeth with— but it is nice being able to take showers and use the toilets!) 

The house is very safe— in fact, the whole town is incredibly safe— and the part of town I'm living in is relatively quiet. (There is some sort of outdoor church revival group next door, though, which is extremely loud, but the singing is so alluring that I don't really mind.) To get to the main part of town, I just walk five minutes down a few winding cobblestone roads, past a few small shops and invariably groups of children, stray dogs (there are so many here!), and families, and then I'm on the main road. 

The town is full of tourists— I hear English or German spoken by, say, one in fifteen people on the street— and the local economy seems to be based entirely on tourism. The streets are lined with restaurants and food and niche stores— but predominantly by Mayan artisans selling their wares. I have bought a few things— woven bracelets, chinitas (woven loafers I'm using to protect my feet against my house's cement floors), and a backpack— and I know I've been swindled because I am bad at haggling (but mostly because I'm as white as they come), but I'm okay with that. Though some of the artisans only speak Kaqchikel, the majority speak Spanish, and so I've had conversations with several of them— many of whom remember my name ("AY-mee-lee") when I pass them again.

Quite a few of the stores are manned by small children. Children here roam the streets by themselves, and many go up to people eating in restaurants to ask for money, try to sell items or shine shoes, or simply stare. This is the aspect of life that I've had the hardest time with so far, and though people who have lived here for a while are used to it and don't find it as emotionally upsetting, I still do not know how I am going to be able to process this during my time here. The enormity of the gap between many of these artisans— many of whom open their stores early in the morning and haul their wares home at eleven at night—and the people who buy their products seems to be unconscionable. This is a topic I know that I will be thinking a lot about during my time here.

Overall, though I am perpetually exhausted (caused, I think, both by novelty and by the accumulation of sleep deprivation over several weeks, which I haven't yet been able to remediate here), I am feeling very optimistic. I am catching up on some much-needed rest and alone time, and feel that I am recharging for the coming adventures. I have met several staff, parents, and students from the school at which I will be teaching, and all are extraordinarily kind, generous, and interesting. I really can't complain— I can only gush.

You can see the whole set of photos by clicking here.

¡Llegada!

I'm here! Finally! After a very stressful week of farewells and sales and shipping and packing and planning (which I could not have gotten through without the help of some truly saintly friends), Tabitha the Cat and I flew to and stayed in Atlanta last night, where I had a lovely farewell dinner with three friends, and then I flew to Guatemala City this morning! I was picked up by the airport by a school-arranged driver who helped me navigate Guatemala City's Walmart (where I bought the first days essentials: kibble, kitty litter, toilet paper and bottled water) and then drove the three-ish hours to Panajachel. We spoke in Spanish the entire time, which was both thrilling and exhausting, and though I was informed that I have some "problemas con los verbos," I was relieved to find that I can get by with my pre-existing language skills talking about topics ranging from our respective favorite colors (his opening gambit) to reasons why I shouldn't be afraid of the large men holding rifles at most big intersections. He dropped me off at my new house, which is so charming the word "charming" doesn't even begin to describe it. (Pictures tomorrow!) I then strolled through town, met some very nice folks (including the extremely sketchy Wisconsonian pharmacist), bought an internet stick (which I am using at this very moment) and two giant pupusas for dinner (for the equivalent of $2.30), and got a bit lost on my way back to my new home but managed to not freak out too much (or get run over by any of the ridiculous-looking three-wheeled red taxi things which speed down every tiny street!). And now I am here, and I'm going to eat my pupusas and go to sleep.

More tomorrow— including pictures— when I'm just a little less fatigada.

Well

Today I shipped 716 pounds of stuff to California.

More soon! Off to ATL tomorrow and then Guatemala on Monday! Gaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh