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.
Everything is so colorful. I like your house a lot (aside from the spiders). Hope you take some beautiful lake/volcano pictures soon.
ReplyDelete