Living La Vida Lívingston

I didn’t know what language to speak, the landscape changed completely, I started out in Guatemala and ended up in the Carribean. “Sí, hubo un otro mundo completamente diferente.” Another world, our argentine friend remarked later laughing about Lívingston, sitting on a floating dock on the Río Dulce River in the late afternoon rays.

We were staying in what I like to think of as “the tree house”, or the crazy cabin on wooden stilts on the side of the Río Dulce River. Complete with wooden boardwalks connected to the main cabana and other cabins, canoes, a water taxi to get to the mainland, and mosquito nets, it was not your typical huespedaje (aka cheap hotels that function along the same line as a hostel but are more common in Central America.) It was so much better, isolated and serene after the hustle and bustle of cities and tourist traps. Dulce, or sweet in Spanish was a perfect way to describe this unspoiled river with banks of lush vegetation and shear walls of limestone bordering this rather large river. Much less commercial and visited than Lago de Atilan, boats were necessary to get from point to point but the pace of everything was much more reminiscent of island style living.

This way of life might also have been instigated by its proximity to the Carribean, Río Dulce flows right out into the Carribean Sea. Lívingston right on the upper lip of Guatemala and the carribean coast, is a fusion of Guatemalan heritage and culture mixed with Caribbean lifestyle and flavor. Lívingston is also unique to Guatemala in that it is home to the Garífuna, an independent population of black Guatemalans that trace their ancestory back to the Carribean island of St. Vincent and later displaced by the British and shipped to the islands off of Honduras. It is here where I wasn’t sure if I should be speaking Spanish or English. The Garífuna are affectionately known as the only black community in Guatemala, who carry their Caribbean roots alongside their Spanish speaking Guatemalan adaptations.

Lívingston is really a small community, not much more than a stopover for people traveling by boat from Belize, Honduras, or the Río Dulce, one could see most of it in two hours. Pero, para conocer Lívingston, se necesita mas tiempo. In Spanish there are two verbs for to know: saber and concocer. Saber is to know facts, such as Lívingston is the only place to get unique pan de coco or coconut bread and Tapado a fresh seafood soup rico with coconut milk. Conocer on the hand is to know a person or place intimately. My trip to Lívingston is a perfect example I have been there, passed a couple of hours, researched it; por mí sabé Lívingston, pero para concocer Lívingston necesito mas tiempo. I need more time to explore its streets, exotic cuisine and Caribbean charm. More time to head out to the beach or uncover more of its Caribbean roots in dancing styles and idiomatic expressions.

Part 2: Surviving the Cone

My shoes were burning, I could feel the heat underneath as the smell got stronger. There was a thick mass of people making their way up behind me, there was nowhere to go but up and fast. Ouch! I yanked my hand back from the rock, full of searing heat whenI had tried to boost myself up by grabbing a hold. Getting up was much harder now, still as steep as ever, but now burning hot as well. I scrambled 10 meters up, and stopped dead in my tracks not caring if my shoes melted off my feet—molten hot lava less than 7 meters from me. So close a tall European boy was standing with his face turned against the heat, his hand outstretched in the opposite direction roasting a marshmallow. Roasting a marshmallow from the heat of molten hot lava, cooool. Plane to Guatemala $330, expensive hiking gear $200+, hiking 2 hours up steep, precipitous volcano slopes $9.99, a bag of Guatemalan marshmallows $3.00, stick that will later be given back to the children who sold it to you $0.61 cents, seeing molten hot lava a few feet away: priceless.

Molten hot lava is awesome, words nor pictures can do it justice, and I think that’s because it’s not something you just see, it’s something you feel. Literally it’s hot! The lava slowly creeping down the side of Volcán Pacaya was a rich nutrient black volcanic rock shiny from the extreme heat and pressure of melting criss-crossed and terraced with the burning ember and orange glow that is not a color so much as a property of heat. Another reason, I think it’s so awesome to see lava, is because let’s face, when do you ever see lava unless you stupidly hike-up an active volcano looking for it (best case scenario) or a volcanic eruption occurs (worst case scenario). And it was stupid, there we were dozens of people, gawking at real, live molten lava, roasting marshmallows and posing for pictures while suffering intense heat and the consequential strong smell of burning rubber.

If the way going up was hard, the way coming down was just plain dangerous. There were too many people and the footing was loose volcanic rock on a steep slope, never a good combination. At points I could have been surfing down the mountain, I had so little control of the rocks underneath. Going down by yourself was dangerous, but I was more scared of the people behind me. A boulder was knocked down, and we all scrambled to get out of its way. The guy in front of me clamped it between his legs to stop it from hitting a frightened and paralyzed women in front of him. He suffered a serious gash, but it could have been much worse. And it was starting to get dark. Carlos was a great guide though, he hustled us together and got us moving through the worst parts before there was no natural light left. The worst was over, we still had to hike an hour and a half in the dark but it was mostly declining trails. Behind me the lava, brighter in the dark was picking up speed and giving a magnificent display. Dozens of people were attempting to capture it and you would see the constant pop of camera flashes going off. How they were getting down in the dark beats me, but I didn’t envy their trip one bit.

Finally at the bottom ourselves after a mainly uneventful hike down, we reached the kids begging for the sticks and flashlights back so they could re-sell them to a swarm of tourists the next day. There was a festive air, but it could just be because we were all thrilled and happy we survived. It was probably one of the more touristy, crowded things we had done thus far. There were certainly no Guatemaltecos besides the guides and taxis. Yet to me it resounded as one of the most authentic experiences I’ve had. Nowhere else are volcanoes such a prominent feature of the landscape and integrated into the dynamics of the land from soil properties to abundant hot springs. Nowhere else would offer such an adventure either, not for nine bucks, and definitely not without a slew of waivers and requirements to sign off. But here was a country that settled a village at the base of a volcano. Carlos, the other guides, and townspeople including children grew up traversing the volcano and exploring their land with or without tourists. As Carlos explained to me, “ I love my job, I get to go out and climb a mountain everyday, breathe fresh air, stay close to my home, meet people from all over. The people that leave to go out to the big cities are unhappy, the do work they do not enjoy, and travel far from their homes and families for what? I am happy to stay here, and I am glad people want to see all parts of Guatemala as Guatemala is.”

Climbing the cone. Part 1

In a land filled with no less than 35 volcanoes, climbing up one, is far from unusual. In fact it might be one of the more touristy things we’ve done. For starters it was cheap, the whole thing guide, shuttle, entrance fee was just around 9 dollars a head, if you have a good. cheap Spanish speaking bargainer that is, which actually almost describes me perfectly (the Spanish gets a little rural at times). After receiving the very cheap (I’m assured begrudgingly) special amiga + estudiante price of $35 quetzales (the exchange rate is 8.2 Q to $1 US dollar) plus the park fee of 40 quetzales we’re all set. No waivers, no warning, nada. Oh, and a warning to buy two flashlights and some marshmallows if we want. Okay...

The next thing I now we’re off. Crammed into another shuttle van with our backpacks stuffed into our laps with 11 other tourists. The 13 of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into, but then again, neither did the multiple other vans of tourists from other companies (who I assume did not get the special amiga + estudiante price). Even the 2 girls who had hiked the San Juan Volcano in the Lago de Atilan area, remarked how different the 2 experiences were. And what an experience we had...

After a 2 hour drive from Antigua, skirting the outskirts of Guatemala City, we arrived at the town of San Francisco Sales. Here surrounding the Volcan Pacaya, we were met by a tienda with last minute supplies and a swarm of town children hawking marshmallows, twice the price of course, and more necessary, walking sticks. “Es necesario, “ they assured us with somber faces, in both Spanish and English fighting each other for the sales. Even the littlest one had a stick to sell, launching at anyone who had two empty hands. I politely declined. Necessary, I decided was a word used too lightly by vendors in Guatemala. More importantly, it was here where we met our guide, Carlos, and became Los Dragones. Dragons, he explained, was our group name and it was very important to stay together as a pack using our name, lest we becomes hostages in another group to another guide. Aye, Aye Capitán.

I’m not going to be modest, I’m out of shape, I spent my winter break ignoring the whole concept of exercise. Hiking straight up a volcano sans stick in long pants with a heavy backpack (how do they always get so heavy?!) was going to be what I will politely term “interesting”. I felt reassured by Carlos though, he was a small guy, skinny in a sweatshirt and jeans, I have no idea how old he was but he looked 17. He was a great guide; patient, nice, good at his job and no doubt much older, but he looked 17. But if I was anxious about the 4 hour hike both ways, at least I was willing to do it on foot. For everyone else, there were “taxis” exhausted guide horses and their owner who offered to shuttle people up for 100 Q most of the way, one way, a small fortune in Guatemala if used both ways. After 10 minutes of walking, 7 member of our group were being taxied up, I for all my inactivity was fine, so far.

Cut to 40 minutes later, almost half way there, and the going is rough, it’s loose sand good for making your calf muscles quiver and it’s not straight up, but with steep winding cuts making the way longer, and an hour left to go I’m not sure which way I prefer. Our group is young, all college age kids and we’re moving fast with breaks every once and awhile. But the terrain is changing drastically, the trees are disappearing, there is no brush in sight and the dusty dirt path has turned into shards of porous black volcanic rock. At certain intervals Carlos will point out specific lava formations from a year ago, then 3 months ago, then 3 days ago, we’re getting close. We come to a ridge at the end of the winding path, and there it is, the mouth of the volcano. Okay, it’s still a way’s up but it’s the closet I’ve ever been to the mouth of a smoking volcano.

There was smoke coming out in copious amounts, thick plumes of it. The rest of the way ia straight up. Straight up on loose gravel, and freshly fallen lava chunks. The footing is not very secure, at regular intervals a small rock-slide would start, or some good size dried lava chunks would crash down. Carlos, assured us this was the toughest part and we were almost there. We didn’t need him to tell us we were close, I could feel heat radiating out of the rocks... The going was slow, each step had to be carefully tested to not create a mini avalanche, picking our way up like mountain goats through terrain so steep you could really only see the person and rocks in front of you. Luckily I was just behind Carlos who had the best footing and was not knocking stuff down my way. The next blast of heat was intense, uncomfortably hot—we had made it. Not to the mouth of the volcano of course, but to a point about 8 yards away from slowly flowing lava. The smell was worse than burning rubber, it took me only a second longer to realize it was the bottom of my shoes burning...

To be continued.

A Taste for Tortillas

“We only trust people who eat what we eat,’ she told me one day as she tried to explain the relationship between the guerillas and the Indian Communities.”—Riogoberta Menchu

The Mayans have always attached a particular importance and significance to maize. Believing themselves to be born and descended of maize. They treat the plant that gives them life with the utmost respect using every bit they can from the leaves or hojas, to the kernels in tortillas, tamales, or tamalitos. There is even a sweet drink, distinct to Guatemala—Atole, made from ground up corn, it is sugary and unusual. It has a decidely corn taste, sweet and thick with a few yellow corn kennels hidden at the bottom for texture. Chile or cinnamon is commonly added to the Atole based on the customer’s preference. Still and yet, the most famous signature maize staple is the torilla.

You will first hear the clap, clap, clap of tortillas being made on baked clay comals before you see them anywhere—correction everywhere: street side vendors, small shops, restaurants. This is very important as people here are used to having fresh tortillas right off the comal, or if worst comes to worst, prepared that day. There are no store bought tortillas here, that is absurd. Tortilla making appears to be a social activity as three or four women come together over the flashing hot comal, forming balls of dough that they clap between their palms to flatten out while they gossip, laugh, and smile. For festivals and celebrations, there are more tortillas vendors, and little comedors with table and chairs will walk to the vendors for fresh tortillas to accompany the ordered meal. But the vendors themselves will sell you their specialty. For a festival there are larger, sweeter tortillas sold with sugar added into their mix. Hearty and sweet, people will line up for these tortillas and the vendors need no advertising or hustling calls.

There are three types of tortillas blue, white and yellow reflecting the three types of maize that grows wherever the people can cultivate it. The blue tortillas, so dark blue as to appear almost black with brown spots from the heat of the comal; these ones are the best and are much rarer. Always a treat they are exotic, both slightly sweet and smoky with a rich thick bite.

Maize is undoubtedly the most important crop for Guatemala. Not because it’s a huge economic export like coffee. It’s a crop of the people, with a rich cultural and culinary history. So significant is maize that in a country filled with economic poverty, low sanitation standards, and social unrest still today, everyone from farmers to the people far removed from the field in the city, was aware of the plight of maize in 2009. Global warming, which is still not fully recognized in the United States, a first world country with the most access to technology, education, and free-flow of ideas, is being watched here. Here in Guatemala, it may not be given the same name as “Global Warming”, but it is given the same interest and concern. Last year for the first time ever, there was a serious lack of rain in Guatemala, rain that is counted on for the corn to grow. But the rain did not come and the corn could not grow. Crops failed prematurely, farmers lost everything, whole pueblas could not eat. The president of Guatemala, declared an emergency and ordered corn from the surrounding countries is Central America, El Salvador and Honduras, and onwards. Food was collected for pueblas without maize.

This year the weather is watched carefully, Guatemala is waiting for it’s customs to continue, it’s crops to grow.

Our Black Jesus Party

“We’re going to the Festival of the Jesus Negro.”

“ What?”

“La celebración de Jesus Negro,” Carla explained patiently. ¿Quieres ir?

She didn’t even have to tell me there was dancing, food, special vendors, all the works for a party. She got me with The Black Jesus. So we all went, about 10 white students trying to learn Spanish and our teachers into the back of an open pick-up truck with rails. It was dangerously fun, and I made sure to get a handle right near the back of the truck where all the action is (in your case Mom, I’m just elaborating to make the story better). There we were, all of us crammed in the back of a pick-up truck practically bottoming out over speed-bumps while all the Guatemaltecos had a good laugh at the Gringo’s sake. Tables had turned, now it was a bunch of white tourists who must have looked like a batch of inadequate migrant workers shipped off to the fields in droves (was this the power of Black Jesus?). Up the hills, down the hills, there were so many of us that people pushing the little refrigerated ice creams carts were passing us at times. I enjoyed myself thoroughly and was almost sorry we arrived at our destination 20 minutes later. A small town nestled up in the hills outside of Xela, small but certainly not quiet; it was fiesta time, at 10:00 in the morning. It was not a tourist venture, not even mentioned in the guidebooks. So when we showed up hanging out the truck the local announcer broadcasting out of his van shouting through his megaphone quite gleefully: ... “Los turismos están aqui, empezamos!” The tourists are here, let’s start!

By initial impression alone, I never would’ve guessed it was a religious celebration, by looks alone, that Black Jesus must have been one great guy because they townspeople threw him a party that would put Mardi Gras to shame. For three days there would be a carnival, costumes, tents full of arcade games or food, a multitude of vendors selling everything from parrots to ceramic chicken banks and earthenware pots, horse rides, dancing, a band, and so much more, and of course fireworks. *Note: this were not just common everyday fireworks we’ve experienced up to now, these were awe-worthy, special occasion fireworks along the likes of Fourth of July. Thankfully the puebla was situated up on a hill, walking back to nuestra casa later Friday night, we were treated to a perfect view.

It was not until we neared the church that a more somber atmosphere began to set in. The mood was still festive as the church was filled with music, streamers and colors from both decorations and the people so beautifully dressed in their finest hupiles (indigenous blouses) and cortas (indigenous skirts) or trousers, streaming on and out of the church. Inside something was going on, but there was no semblance of order. People were knelling to pray, or resting pensively on the pews while others were lighting candles spread around the church or walked in carrying their own candle already lit.

The legend of Jesus Negro is not site specific to this small town, or even just Guatemala, but it is the result of the mezcla between Mayan worship and Christianity’s dominance and far-flung reaches. Indigenous Mayan worship commonly invokes the use and presence of special herbs and plants burned as incense, carried throughout the street when parading special idols or burned at the altar during worship. As the legend goes, one of the earliest crucifixes to be commissioned in Guatemala and distributed to a small puebla, Esquipulas near the border of Honduras, was placed in a small abode, while incense was lit asking for blessing or showing devotion to the image. The smoke from the incense constantly being burned eventually covered the crucifix with resin, altering the perceived skin tone, thus the creation of Jesus Negro. The notoriety however, of this new idol, grew from its curative ability. Popularity spread and there now exists Black Jesus’ and their respective celebrations and pilgrimages everywhere form Panama to Chimayo, New Mexico...I have to say though, it was the best party I’ve ever crashed on a cultural note. It was the perfect peek at pure Guatemalan fun and a heady does of culture.

¡ Viva Jesus Negro!

Buried Treasure

“You just got to go, it’s unbelievable, like nothing you’ve ever seen...I can’t even explain it.”

I’m not big on cemeteries, they never held any real fascination or even notice for me besides realizing it’s just as expensive to die and it seems a big waste of good space, after all it’s FORever. I’ve also been to a total of four cemeteries in my entire life. The first and third one looked like suburbia with neatly maintained rows, white white marble against perfectly trimmed green grass, and planned gardens—five flowers per tree. The second time was for a field trip in high school with Mrs. Brown, senior year to study increasing life spans and epidemic diseases. The last one was the notorious old cemetery in Savannah, Georgia and was by far the most interesting, but that time I was more fascinated by a huge agave plant riddled with carvings of people’s names and greatest loves to see much of the other, much older wonders. But after meeting Nicole, another traveler in her 40’s, in a cafe, swapping stories about our time in Guatemala and other places, she was adamant we go see this one cemetery. “You just got to go, it’s unbelievable, like nothing you’ve ever seen...I can’t even explain it.” She also warned us not to go alone as the cemetery had a reputation for attracting drugs, drunks, and dead people.

The next day I begged my maestra to take me on an outing to the cemetery. “Elisa, tú quires ir al cemetario? Porqué?” Helen was bemused, but she agreed with a wicked smile, giving me the feeling I wasn’t the only one who would enjoy the little field trip.

Quetzaltenago has a long, fascinating (complicated by Spanish) history. A history that can be read in one of the cities oldest and most unique cemeteries, with its mix of spacious corridors dominated by commandeering and alternately bizarre private tombs to its tangle of overgrown brush pushing out disjointed, scattered headstones. Here time periods and styles clash, there exists a patch of the cemetery laid with very old traditional stone graves from the late 18^th century cholera epidemic that swept through the city. A small wrought iron fence separates the antique tombstones from the bright splashes of color from the more modern monuments behind it. These luxurious private tombs are designed to the owner’s taste and sometimes personality. Such as one ex-president of Xela obsessed with Greek architecture and responsible for many of the cities Greek buildings, he will forever be remembered in a small Greek mausoleum complete with Greek columns and Greek flare.

Despite the wide range of themes and colors of these private shrines, they all held one, and probably most important thing in common, each had the money in life to rest however they pleased in the afterlife. Built right behind the church, the most expensive and extravagant tombs monopolized the property right behind the entrance. Huge concrete affairs either housing one very important person, or sometimes joining one or two families in one palatial plot. Families being buried together is something of a universal intent, but here there were literally miniature palaces encasing a family, it was a so unique, anyone could see why ancestors or strangers would want to venture here to visit. And venture here they must have, most of the tombs were crumbling charmingly in antiquitarian fashion or else were brightly painted and surrounded by flowers (most tombs had vase like holders incorporated into the overall structure). Judging by the abundance of both wealth in flowers and freshly painted hues, it’s not hard to believe ancestors and families visit the cemetery often, and keep up with it every year as they would their house. It’s both a source of pride for the family as well as a way to pay respect for the dead. Day of the dead, a yearly festival honoring those who have passed with food and offerings is also popular as a festival here, though it does not seem to be as culturally built in as Mexico with her Katrina’s.

Less extravagantly planned and situated, but nonetheless cared for or attended with love, were the smaller plots, tiled monuments, and headstones. Heaped almost randomly were they could fit, it resembled fighting one’s way through a forest to view the various tombs here. This, Helen explained, was for ordinary people, the sprawl, the distance, all signified a more humble budget. But this section of the cemetery was far from lacking in detail or design, it was just on a much smaller scale. I found this part to be refreshing and more individualized, some were tiled, one was painted in the colors of Mexico with an elaborate Virgin of Guadalupe, some even had the deceased’s picture covered with class built into the structure. Hardly any were just a name and a date, poetry or prayer was one more means of elaboration or dedication.

As we walked back to the entrance I listened to Helen wistfully mourn how hard Guatemala can be for young children and infants. Even in a big city where there is more accesses to information, healthcare, and opportunities, Guatemala is still very much a country in need. This time I paid closer attention as we passed what appeared as walls of tombs, stacked with a slot for each small child, built up like a fortress. Right near the entrance a place of most importance, was the stronghold of the cemetery; Guatemala never forgets its children. And let any visitor know, the mourning in not dark and dreary, life is a celebration—the bright colors selected with love to highlight the life that had been, not the time that had been lost.

The Chicken Bus Post

Guatemala is famous for many things: textiles, indigenous dress, maize, and camionetas, also known as Chicken Buses. To me it’s a term of endearment, a long-standing joke about the baggage that is transported in these second-class, everyday buses. The best part of the joke? It’s completely true. I’ve ridden with a woman carrying a live turkey in her sack, I didn’t even know it was on there until she passed me in the aisle on her way out, not even batting an eye. Some locals call the buses Parejas, for the two ladders that connect to the luggage rack on top where everything from duffel bags to baskets of vegetable are thrown on top. The assistant to the driver, runs up and down the racks, through the front door, through the back door, all while the bus is in motion getting luggage, collecting fares, and packing in more passengers.

Much different than the Pullman buses (the converted vans), the camionetas are old converted US school buses, although you’d hardly recognize them. Each bus, driver, and the essential assistant, have a personality of their own. Most buses are painted bright colors along with names, themes and sometimes motifs. So far we’ve ridden in Guadalupe, Christo, and I’ve forgotten the rest, but one had a Miley Cirus sticker on it’s review mirror, she seems to be pretty popular here despite her utter lack of talent or relevance. Guadalupe had a huge colorful picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe on the ceiling, and I might have imagined, it but I could swear the driver was a bit more careful and a bit more cautious than the others...

From the outside the buses appear bright and cheery and up-kept. I’ve often seen two or more men washing their bus with great pride. Inside they’ve been altered slightly, or maybe it’s because they’re so old I just think they been converted, but they all very much have the school bus feel. On one trip the boys sitting behind us made intermittent kissing noises, the ride was so similar to middle school I had to laugh.

The ride is well, the ride is indescribable, each so different than the last it’s dizzying. Some buses are spaciously empty with only a few heads in the first few front seats. Then there’s mercado buses, a whole different story. If you try going to a puebla when it’s market day, you’ll be packed with about 2 dozen other people and their baggage (whatever it might be) for the ride. The Saturday we went to Totonipican for the market, there were 3 people in every seat, 7 people in every aisle and the back of the bus was so crowded with us stragglers, we were left crushed together not too unlike sardines in a can. Nobody could move, but every once in awhile the back door would pop open and another passenger would literally be shoved in and the door would shut, the assistant hanging onto the back ladder, fully outside, no doubt scouting the next victim.

The assistants are usually young boys, teenagers or a bit older, who take their jobs very seriously. The assistant for Totonipican managed to reach us in the back of the bus by hanging on to the luggage racks and stepping on the back of the seats through the crowd, avoiding the packed aisles to collect our fare. “Pero señor no puedo ahora,” I smiled bemused to packed in to even try to reach into my pocket and hand him the fare. He nodded knowingly, unworried. Navigators of the buses, each new face that comes on, from the side of the road or a designated stop is noted and visited by the assistant, and if change is needed he will disappear again and re-appear five minutes later with the exact change needed. They are sultans of their domain, and do whatever they please, but have, in my experience, been very humorous and very helpful with as much personality as the bus they are running.

Paraiso Found

Rinque Morales, whose favorite phrase is fotos? mas fotos? fotos?

All I knew is we were taking the bus somewhere about an hour away, where there was lots of stuff—we would need a whole afternoon, and sure I could bring my camera. That was all I could understand, I couldn’t even catch the name of the place where we were going from Anna, the excited 11 year old from our host family. The idea had come to her after admiring some of the local handicrafts we (okay, okay, me) had selected at various local markets. It seemed she wanted to take us somewhere really cultural that a lot of tourists missed out on. When Jueves rolled around, the day for our family outing, I still had no idea where exactly we were going or what to expect. ¿Estás lista? Ready for what? In hindsight, the answer was no, I was definitely not ready.

When Thursday rolled around, plans were underway for our adventure, the whole family was going, after all. After lunch everyone got dressed up, the 2 year old was given a clean jumpsuit after purposefully pouring soup on herself at lunch (and because I’m not her parents it was adorable). Anna, did her hair and changed from her usual jeans and a t-shirt into a skirt, leggings, and flats. The mom, grandmother, and father all looked noticeably nicer, was I dressed up enough?

Everyone was excited as we left the house and headed towards the center of the city to catch a pullman bus. Pullman buses are old converted vans outfitted with fold out chairs whether there’s space for a person to sit there or not. They are characterized not by their crazy driving, which is every second-class bus driver in Guatemala, but their assistants, who hang out the windows and doors hustling any and everybody on the street to get in the van. There is no such thing as full, or room for no more where the public transport in Guatemala is concerned. They sometimes pack so many people in, that if the van were to crash, I don’t think anybody would be hurt because they’re all packed together like packing peanuts. It’s actual quite comical how many people they can get, including Señoritas from the daily market with their large baskets of vegetables and the plastic chairs they sit on during the day. All the while the assistant is practically grabbing people from the streets to push them in. There’s also no such thing as an arranged stop or pick-up, they will drop you off wherever you yell out, and pick up anyone showing even the least interest in going.

After half an hour of watching the parade inside the Pullman bus ebb and swell, we arrived, the excitement was palpable. A big warehouse obstructed our destination, it was just around the corner...HiperPaiz! At first I just didn’t understand, it was a huge warehouse shiny and bright and full of trinkets and advertising convincing you to buy more trinkets, exactly like Wal-mart. Slowly it dawned on me, we had taken a family outing to the mall...uh-uh. Once I got over my initial shock at a family outing in Guatemala to a mall of all places, I actually had a good laugh. Here we were all the way in Guatemala, and instead of dragging our around a museum or monument of national pride, the entire family dressed up for one big outing to the mall. Perhaps the most American place in Guatemala, was actually vastly culturally different. Sure most of the stores were the same, selling junk and mochilas with plastic Hannah Montana faces on them, but most of the families weren’t here to buy junk (although there was plenty for sale). Most families were casually strolling around window grazing, as if we were all at some scenic promenade rather than an blown-up department store. There were even plenty of families in their indigenous clothes full of colors. Maybe in a city full of four or five tiny, crammed tiendas two store fronts down from the next, and streets full of dusty traffic and noise, the mall was one place to relax in a clean and somewhat interesting environment.

Nobody ended up buying anything, I honestly think we just went to the mall to enjoy ourselves and each other’s company. Passing what I can only describe as a very Latin pants store (special technology to enhance the pompis), Anna asked me if I thought this mall prettier than the ones in America, how could I even begin to explain the vast differences? The malls of America each more huge and gluttonous than the next, blighted with the disease of consumption, the frenetic crowds and claustrophobia and this plastic paradise, for lack of a better description. They were worlds apart, and here I was thousands of miles away window-shopping for cell phone dangles and gold hoops in Spanish...