Madre de Tierra: a long-winded account about dirt

Two of the many markets to befound in Xela.

We left for Fuentes Georginas early, as the sun was beginning to peek over the mountains and volcanic ridges. Sunlight streamed through the car windows as we left the city and climbed our way through the twists and turns leading up into the hills. Leaving behind the sprawl of the city and it’s many colors, we traded somewhat paved roads for dusty turns on a narrow dirt road, trading buildings for terraced sprawling plots. Right outside the city as the altitude climbs higher and higher, lies a vast vegetable region in hills so steep ropes are needed to assist the people going up and down. In a part of the highlands so mountainous, constantly seized by trembles and earthquakes, where the weather changes from brutally cold to scorching hot in a period of a few hours, there was a vast vegetable growing region in areas uninhabitable for conquests and sprawling cities. Xelaju the Mayan name for Quetzaltenago, Xela for short, means “under the ten” most likely referring to the vast outcrops of mountains and volcanoes surrounding the bed of the city, with Mayan pueblas creeping up the sides like hearty tendrils clinging for dear life. As we were cutting through the hills like switchbacks en el carro, it was hard to imagine how there came to be a road there. But to look around and see miles and miles of carefully cultivated plots rising out of precipitously shear gradients was staggering. The only thing working in the people’s favor was the soil was sure to be rich and fertile with nutrients from the ever-active volcanoes surrounding the region.

The existence of these volcanoes created a landscape both powerfully altered and fragilely beautiful. Fuentes Georginas was one of the gems hidden away high in the mountains. A natural spa with turquoise water only faintly touched with a sulfuric quality, long thought to be healing for the skin, is heated by the volcanic activity always present just beneath the surface in the Western Highlands. When we arrived at Fuentes Georginas, it was just past 7:30, the sun had yet to heat up the area despite being so high up. I was skeptical about going swimming, but immediately upon stepping into the largest of the four pools I had to pull my foot out—the water was scalding hot. Hotter than any hot tub I’ve ever been in, and as you moved through the pool the temperature varied, with different levels of pools with a range of luke-warm to muuuuuuy caliente. Each pool hot enough to create a dense cloud of steam vaporizing into the dense undergrowth of the bosque, or forest. The enveloping cloud forest created an atmosphere of serene beauty and relaxation tucked into the remote hills; the land of Guatemala is full of hidden surprises tucked up in its mountains or spread across its wide stretching plains.

The same tierra that nurtured a wonderful and terribly wild beauty, nurtures a culture born from harvesting the land. Each pequeña puebla has it’s own market day, where animals, colorful clothes and weavings, and especially vegetables and fruits are sold, traded, and admired. Everywhere in the large city of Xela on everyday of the week small markets can be found where vegetables, freshly picked, are haggled over for tonight’s supper and tomorrow’s breakfast. The markets are not a quaint feature of life in Guatemala, they are the way of life in Guatemala. Here there are no large-scale agricultural schemes. The families harvest their crops for their particular weekly market, or for the everyday goings on of the city, because it is the only way of life they have known. In a country that has never known a great economic infrastructure, the sweat and blood of the people is in the vegetables, in the land from which they were grown and carefully tended until the day where they will sustain the life that has bleed and sweat for them.

“¿Por favor puedo tomar una foto?” I smile at the Mayan lady in the marketplace, with her colorful dress and vegetables surrounding her in a whirlwind of colors and textures, a sight that screams Guatemala in one glance. She looks at me, and sadly shakes her head. I wish her a good day and move on disappointed, but contemplative.

In Guatemala today there exists a perplexingly fine line between the gravitational pull of modern day and the splendors of civilizations past. There are many obscure layers to peel back and separate before getting to the heart of the issue. The first layer leaves me uncomfortably exposed, with my naked and self-serving desire to capture a person for my memories, for my contemplation, for my purposes—whatever they may be. Although my intentions are good, I simply find her colors and essence too beautiful to glimpse just once in passing—what gives me the right to posses her, even in just a photograph? There is a Mayan belief that taking a picture is an act of capturing one´s soul; creating a culture both fascinated and terribly fearful of the camera. A fear that is ignited even more so now as more and more tourists leave more and more places in Guatemala conquered by the camera. The result is a mixed bag, the heads that turn away or duck out of sight as the camera is produced, even if the focus is on Parque Central and no one subject in particular. I have had several instances where upon pulling out my camera heads duck out of sight. A taboo I can both understand and appreciate; I hate it when someone whips out a video camera to film “everything” as the walk along. I always get a perverse pleasure knowing that my scowl probably ruined 1 second of the Mayan temples or some other treasure trove that absolutely cannot be missed, honey did you bring the video camera?!

However on Sunday, I sampled a different flavor of Guatemala. We made our way to the sleepy village of San Andres Xecul, a small village whose only tourist highlight was a colorfully decorated church façade, so unusual in a land of white or pastel churches. But as it was so out of the way and small, it barely registers as more than a blurb in most guidebooks. It must not be frequented often enough that tourists are an event to be gawked at, as the news traveled faster up the street than we did. Two foreign white girls with cameras are here! As we made our way up the hill from the church to the Cavalro, a building matching the décor of the church on top a steep hill overlooking the town and surrounding valley, the little boys chased after us screaming and playing. Younger children peeked out of us from half closed courtyard doors, and we even caused enough fear for a young boy to run and close the door as we crossed past. The young girls in their beautiful skirts of a million differently threaded colors, ran past us in groups only to be caught peeking out us curiously and giggling before running past in their packs. Two older girls were leaning against a courtyard door calmly, but still curiously watching our approach. I gave them my best smile and asked for a picture. They glanced down shyly, then glanced at each other, each seeking permission from the other. Finally they responded they didn´t know. I waited patiently still smiling like a goon. Then came the golden pass: an affirmative nod. Not wanting to push my luck or make them feel on display, I shot two photos instantaneously without glancing at my camera settings or the photo. Praying they came out decently I asked the girls if they wanted to see. A shy smile and another nod, and I crossed the street to show them. I´m sure they would have been impressed at anything, but they were delighted with the picture of themselves. “Que linda, muchas gracias que le vaya bien,” I cooed, goony grin plastered on my face, delighted with the interaction. It´s not the best picture I´ve taken this trip, but it may be one of my favorite memories so far. In this case the camera was the only natural course towards a conversation, even if brief. Discouraged and slightly embarrassed before after a stream of denials and greetings of fear, I finally captured a smile. A picture, even mediocre ones tells a 1000 words, but more importantly, it speaks in a language so universal we all can understand. Goofy grin and all, Guatemala is smiling back…

Xelaju: Ciudad de Colores

Guatemala is full of beauty, brimming with life and color. During the 4 hour bus ride from Guatemala City to Quetzaltenago, we passed rollicking hills with steeply terraced crops ready for rain and eventually cultivation. We cut through valleys and mountains, domed by volcanoes and slathered in sunlight. It was land of wild beauty, touched upon heavily by its people, but uncontainable in neat piles or bundles of packaged suburban yards. Let’s just say the tidy well-maintained English garden would never exist here in the Land of Eternal Spring (read: tropic fever).

In the city of Quetzaltenago, there is much less nature and visible green space. But the city can never escape nature’s claws; Xela, as the inhabitants refer to it, is nestled between Volcanoes in a valley high in the Western Highlands. It is characterized by warm days due to an excess of sunlight, but cool mornings and evenings as the sun disappears and the crisp mountain air settles around the city like a shroud as the evening fades into night.

Before I arrived in Xela, I used the term concrete jungle for several severely urban cities. I now know I used it too loosely. Xela is the ultimate concrete jungle in the best sense of the word. The ferocity of nature is inescapable from the constant tremors and shakes of platonic activity (Guatemala is right on a tectonic hotspot, thus it’s many famous volcanoes). Add to that a city constructed of concrete from the newer streets to the buildings. The buildings come in a variety of shapes and sizes, but the general structure is the same. There is an outside facade which serves as stronghold against street life, and in many casas, leads to the outside courtyard which usually contains vegetation in plots or pots. The courtyard also serves as the living room in a country where the temperature changes over the course of the day (rapidly some days), but mildly during the seasons. The main difference is the addition of humidity and mucha calor in the summer, and much lleuve during the rainy season. Therefore the courtyard allows for a space that does not have to be enclosed, and contains haphazard rooms, some without windows or doors even. There is no central house, rather a collection of rooms and quarters. It’s part of the unique flavor of Latin America, which I promise to note that no door may be available to shield the very cold night from my abode, next time I decide to visit in winter.
However the most striking thing about the houses, stores, and various other buildings in Guatemala, beyond the antiquity, is the variety of colors. All the buildings are basically constructed from the same material, concrete, brick or stone; but they never appear the same because each casa screams with a shade of color louder than the one neighboring it. It’s quite refreshing actually, like instant Prozac. It’s hard to imagine a city bursting with so much color as anything but one on-going fiesta for the eyes.

For your viewing pleasure I’ve included some eye candy of various buildings I have the extreme pleasure of passing by everyday.

Bienvenidos

Hiccup: an involuntary contraction of the diaphragm, common to all yet understand completely by none. Scientists have no idea why we hiccup, sometimes more frequently and sometimes not for years. As common as oldwives tales for curing hangovers, there are many methods for dealing with pesky hiccups: swallowing sugar-laden water, walking backwards, being scared silly. The third night in Guatemala, Anna, the 11 yr. old girl from our host family, had the hiccups while we watched la película, El Norte, a movie based on two Guatemaletecos making their way to America, the North. I wanted to tell her to hold her breath, or to do a headstand then walk counterclockwise and throw salt over her shoulder, but those things don’t translate, and with my rudimentary Spanish, forget it. It wasn’t so much about Spanish or English, Quecha, or Spanish, it was about capturing the cultural nuances that have no direct substitution.

Preparing for this trip, I had read, been warned, and read again the State Departments warning on Guatemala. In hindsight, ignorance is bliss. Sure, I was informed, informed I should be scared to step outside. Scared someone would rob me after leaving the airport, at the ATM, in the market, on the popular highways, basically anywhere and everywhere. The first night in Guatemala City, I struggled to stay awake until nine, a decent hour, all things considered.
Insert loud, absolutely terrifying gun shot sound here. I awoke disoriented and disconcerted. Oh-no, what is that sound?! It was so loud, like a gunshot, it had to be right outside the window. Seconds later, again and again, there was even a second noise like a kick-back from force. I was terrified, my mind didn’t register the sound, but it clearly noted the proximity. Blame it on the paranoia instilled in me by being a young American female traveling in Central America, but I was terrified and my thoughts far from Rationale. “...Omg, they know we’re in here, they want my stuff, they’re attacking us.” Egotistical, ignorant, que tontia! So stupid, and so undoubtedly American it’s laughable, in hindsight.

Allie and I looked at each other, fireworks? “I’m going to peek.”
“Uh..”
“Shit!” She drew back from the window. “He saw me...”
“HE WHAT?!”
“He saw me.”
“Stop it, you’re joking. No, you’re joking, he, no... What did he do?!”
“He laughed.“
“He what? He laughed?” “What?”
Yeah, he laughed, like he got caught doing something bad, like a little kid.”

What I took for an attack, was a celebration of the New Year, right outside our window. After all we had fallen asleep early, it was only 10:30. A minute later, our party animal received a good tongue lashing from one of our neighbors. Once again, the words did not translate, but the tone did. For the first time that night I relaxed and laughed, el payaoso, the clown.

Since we’ve been here, they have celebrated our presence with fireworks every night. Apparently the New Year, is one on-going fiesta, fireworks are more common than friendly greetings in the street, something my guidebook completely overlooked. Qué interesante.

When I related the story back to mi maestra (in Spanish, of course, Mom) she laughed and explained fireworks were very popular for celebrations here, birthdays, holidays, Friday nights, todo. It seems there is no celebration too little for fireworks, and the only thing unusual would be to pass a night without them exploding outside your window. Miriam re-counted the plight of my previous comrades, also American students. On their first night in Guatemala, in Xela, they too had fallen asleep content and peaceful, only to be awoken by what they interpreted to be gunshots, a gun raid in fact. They proceeded to crawl under their beds and remain there for much of the night after a line of fireworks had been set off outside their host house.

It’s nice to know I’m not the only American boba to disgrace Guatemala.