Dia De Los Santos

My host sister... ella esta un poca loca

Within a week of moving in with my new family, I have developed three good friends (they are all giggling in my room as I write, sitting on my bed and coloring while the two eldest are having a competition to see who can give me the most pieces of art... definitely not my goal when I gave them crayons, but it’s fun to see what they come up with!) and two equally awesome friends, the parents, who are willing to coach me in Spanish and invite me into their family.  Also within moving, I have scored myself a family vacation… to WARMTH! 

The volcanoes near San Felipe

We spent this past weekend in San Felipe, where my host dad's family lives.  As we drove there, I watched the thermometer on the car raise and I grinned… I don’t mind the cold but I really enjoy the heat.  We were going for three days/two nights to visit the family, celebrate his birthday, and celebrate Dia de Los Santos. 

Dia de Los Santos really surprised me.  It is a holiday unlike anything I can describe in US terms… it’s kind of like the meaning of Memorial Day meeting the 4^th of July, Labor Day, and Halloween all in one…  kind of.  You see, the holiday is to celebrate those who have died.  Sad, right?  Well, not really. 

Cemeteries in Guatemala are naturally more colorful and entertaining than cemeteries in the States.  Families have their own “Casitas” (small houses) where the family members each have a place.  When more people die, you simply build the casita higher so it can hold everyone (this is what happens in casas (regular houses) when people are born or have more money as well…).  At least, this is what the middle class does.  I was told that the public cemetery has an area for the people with less money as well, but we did not visit over there.  The “rich people” have a private cemetery above the public and it is slightly reminiscent of a country club for coffins equipped with a private church, marble, and pretty views of the city and cemetery.  The cemeteries are naturally pretty with all the colors, but on November 1^st, it gets even more interesting!

First of all, Dia de los Santos celebrates the people in the cemetery.  It is an obligation/honor/opportunity to visit all relatives and bring them flowers.  Before we left Xela, my family went to the cemeteries where different relatives are buried to drop off flowers.  Sunday, after church, we went to the private cemetery to put flowers at my host mom’s grave.  Then, Monday, we went to the cemetery in San Felipe to put flowers at their son’s and my host dad’s grandpa’s grave, as well as a distant relative.  All these visits were solemn in that we were respecting those who have passed on, but they weren’t depressing, sad, or even lamenting.  It’s more like they treat it as a fact of life that’s not great but not worth the tears to overtly lament.  Some people, like my family, remember with flowers.  Others, use tons of decorations, papers, flowers, and other objects to celebrate those they have lost.  It is so pretty!

Fruit cart going down the cemetery paths

Clowns in front of a casita

Besides simply giving tribute to the graves, there is almost some sort of fiesta.  There were food carts, clowns, and my host cousin who walked down with us in late morning, returned around dinner time completely drunk from all the beer that was being sold throughout at all the little food stations.  I already knew that Guatemalans knew how to have fun from simple ingredients, but this was pretty impressive.

I’m was really surprised, mostly, by how a national holiday can be honored, celebrated, and held for the dead and their families.  It is a day that has a solemn pretense but a joyful way of celebrating.  The balance is beautiful.  

 After visiting the cemetery, the family and I headed to the pool to beat the heat.  I got to teach them some swimming and I am convinced that, although they don't have much experience now, they will be pros by the end of the year.  While we were kicking and floating, it reminded me that, although I came to teach, I am learning a lot more.  This is a country of beautiful traditions, people, and stories that we all can learn from.

We learned to blow bubbles!

My host mom and oldest host sister

In order to be found, you first have to be lost

The past two days have been all about being lost.   

This lesson has had a lot of benefits.  One, I have learned that the Spanish verb, perder, pertains to being lost as well as to losing things (my host dad and I agree that Spanish is slightly ridiculous in its need to have many words mean the same thing… eg: to know: Saber/Conocer.  To be: Ser/Estar, and SO MANY MORE!... but all that to say, perder is multifunctional and one of the words that I have used a lot).   

Another lesson is that in order to be found, we have to be lost.  As I was strolling through town, talking to myself and practicing rolling my Rs (Michael Lobberegt, my old voice teacher, would be incredibly proud of my right now…), I realized that although I didn’t know where I was, I was closer to finding out where I could be and what the city looks like than I ever could be if I always knew where I was at.  The first two weeks I lived here, I lived with a wonderful family in Zona 3, really close to the school.  It was within walking distance of the pool (my new best friend that will have a blogpost someday), track (another new friend), and parque/market.  All the places I wanted to go to were there and I did not feel the need to explore much more beyond my morning runs in the neighborhoods.  I quickly figured out the block system (which is shockingly logical and helpful) and rarely got really lost.  

My new host sisters... ages 7, 12, and 4

Then, I moved and moved in with this great family out in zona 1/10/corn fields (they will also get a blogpost someday… probably a lot of them, but that’s not the point right now).  The distance is a bit daunting.  Ie: I need to take a bus.  Buses are hard for me. For one, they are a scarce commodity in Washington… for some reason, public transportation is basically non-existent… so I have little to no experience.  The other reason that buses are hard for me is that they are hard for all foreigners.  Why?  Because there is absolutely no written and publicized document with bus routes written on them.  

Anyways, yesterday was my first official day taking the bus.  I caught it in the morning without a hassle (fortunately, there was someone else at the stop that waved the bus down because this morning taught me that waving it down can be a hassle and a challenge to be conquered in the coming days).  I took it to work, got to work right on time, and was quite proud of myself.  Then, came the afternoon.  At 4:30, the time I had wanted to get home by, I found myself in Parque Central with Malea and Steve.  I quickly realized that it was time for me to head home, so I caught a bus (number 1 for the adventure) to the terminal. It took 30+ minutes (I could have walked faster) because of traffic, so I decided to skip going to the school to get my stuff and just jump on the first bus to my house that I could find because twilight was coming fast.  So, I jumped aboard the microbus (number 2 for the day) I was told to get on by my host dad and headed toward home.  As we were driving, the bus was really full and I couldn’t really see out the windows to make sure I knew where we were.  After a while, a lot of people got off the bus, the bus turned, and more people started getting on.  I realized that the bus was heading back to the parque downtown and I quickly asked the adalante for some help, but not knowing our neighborhood or the town or the street, I wasn’t a very good questionasker. Eventually, I decided to ask him to drop me off where we were at, under the assumption that my host family could possibly come pick me up and I’d be closer.  He dropped me off and the bus drove away.  I looked around and realized that I was standing on a dirt road.  After a host of phone calls, I estimated that I was told to get on the bus and take it to the main bus park (Spanish on the phone is hard).  So, I jumped on the bus (number 3 if you're counting...) and headed that way.

As we were driving, a woman sat next to me. I ended up asking her directions for when to get off (I didn’t want to miss my chance to find my host mom!) and she ended up getting off with me early (traffic…) and we walked to the park.  She was really really tall and relating everything to US things as she explained to me a bit about the bus system, but her facial structure and gray hair and Spanish skills/refusal to speak English confused me about her origins.  I eventually figured out that she was from Boston.  Anyways, this amazing woman saved me from getting super nervous and walked me to the park to a safe place where I could call my host family. (Another lesson about getting lost: sometimes people can help you get found or at least make you know that being lost is okay).  I called and they told me to get on the next bus and head to our church (conveniently a nameless orange building located on a colorful street).   So, I got on another bus (bus number 4 for the night) and headed to the terminal to catch the next bus (number 5 for the night…) to the church.  I got off at the church, confirmed with the random kids who were confused by why there was a gringo standing outside the building at 8 at night that it was a church, and waited for my host dad. He came, and it turned out that we got to go to the prayer service he was leading. I really liked the service, but in the middle, he disappeared for a long while.  He returned near the end with his microbus (he owns them) and the whole congregation got inside (my 6^th bus!).  We drove around Xela dropping people off and heading toward home (at 10ish, now), had one more surprise in order. A cop pulled us over and checked out the bus with his machine gun!  All was well, just a random check, but it definitely caught me off guard (which is getting harder and harder to do in Guatemala).  We arrived home a little after 10, I had a bite of dinner, and crashed in bed.  This morning, my host mom laughed at me and offered to help me this afternoon (which was really really good).  

After yesterday’s wonderful adventure, I took a long stroll today.  I had a lot of errands to run and a great deal of lingering fear regarding public transportation, so I chose to walk most of my errands.  After a (unnecessarily long and possibly considered failed) bus ride into town, I ended up walking from one end, near my school, to pretty much as far as you can get. I was walking along the main road, filled with the old school buses that the US rejected and sent to Guatemala, dump trucks that I assume have the same origins, and cars, inhaling diesel fumes and thinking about how maybe I have adjusted to a city.  Then, after being lost for a bit, I decided to take a left turn.  Within the block, the atmosphere around me completely changed from diesel and horns to the quiet sounds of hoeing the fields and this:

As I walked on, in complete amazement of where I was at and how beautiful it is, I asked myself over and over, in Spanish and in English “Where in the world am I?”(I have decided that questions have more umph when you ask them in two languages… this is especially true in hour 2 of a journey/quest/walk when you don’t really know how or when you’re going to return).  My response to the question was, “I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I’m closer to discovering the city than I would ever be if I hadn’t begun”.   The beauty was astounding, the mountains, people, quiet atmosphere, and then I found it.  A swimming pool. Outdoors, open, and 5Q a swim (a bit more than 50cents). They even teach free lessons in the morning so I’m now on a quest to figure out how I can volunteer or try to fit it in my schedule.

Then, as I was walking back into town, I began thinking about how my hours of being lost have helped me find and discover the city in ways that I never could have on my own.  This isn’t my only time being lost here.  It is arguably a daily ordeal.  But this one was different because I was lost and not on a strict time schedule, more or less casually desiring to learn about the city and seeing how I fit into the life of Xela.  I had goals and desires, things I wanted to find and do, and I did some of them, failed at others, and ignored the other things that were on my to-do list (some things just are worth the hassle).

I think that my adventure of being lost today is very reminiscent of where I’m at right now in my life.  I’m currently lost in the sense that I am living in Latin America, with a family, for a year, with new friends and a different type of support (which comes in the form of your comments, email, and just knowing that I have a team of people behind me).  All this is different from the comfort of my old life where, although it was crazy, I understood it, loved it, and was always able to navigate the state of Washington, the chaos of coaching, learning, and churching (is that a verb?).  I have put myself in this lost position by following the rather strong push of God into this program and into this state of lostness.   Like my adventure today, my lostness is different from hopelessness or aimlessness or even fear (like the night before) because I’m not on a strict time crunch (a year is a nice long time) and during my time, I desire to learn about life, culture, and seeing how I fit into the plans of God.  I’ve been following Robin’s (the pastor in WW) blog while I’ve been here and his recent post quoted one of my favorite quotes.  He said, “My friend Frederick Buechner says that your vocation, or the place where God is calling you, is where the world's greatest needs and your greatest joy intersect”.  I think that this quote is kind of my map for the year.  I am put in a position of being lost, and in order to be found, my objectives are to look at the world’s greatest needs, my greatest joys, and see where they intersect.  Along the way, I may run into random church services, men with machine guns, or shimmering outdoor pools, and all of them I will experience with a learning heart.  I am lost right now because I want to find and to be found.

Lessons from tortillas...

I have spent the last week and a half learning tortillas - white corn tortillas to be exact.  The experience of learning this art has taught me a lot.  

Good things take a lot of work.   The corn is picked, shucked, and taken of the cob to become Maize (it’s called Elote before that).  Then the bags of Maize come to Xela (my new home) and we beg someone to take us in their car to go pick it up.  50 or 100lbs a night… measured into the bag by 3lb increments.  That takes a long time.  After we get the Maize, we return to the house and rinse the corn with limestone (Cael) until about 40 lbs of it and cael and water are in a giant pot.  Then, the pot is put on heat overnight and the house smells like cornbread.  In the morning, the soaked corn is put in a basket and on a trolley and we walk a decently far way and grind the corn into a mud-like thing called Masa.  The masa is what tortillas come from… it’s not until then that you start getting to play with the circles and clapping!

The Trolley that carries the Maize to the mill to become Masa!

The super cool grinding machine in a super bad photo because it's awkward to take a picture of just the machine...

Making the tortillas

 Patience.  Patience.  Patience.  My goal has been to learn to make tortillas and to roll my rs.  This has resulted in my spending 2-4 hours a day in the tienda, standing around the table-sized equivalent of a gas-heated frying pan, clapping my hands together (looking often like an idiot) and attempting to roll my rs (aka spitting, choking, laughing, and occasionally jumping with joy).

Kenya... who is 4 and able to make tortillas

SEE!??!?!?

I am the entertainment!

Looking like a fool adds to the experience.  Besides accomplishing my goal of learning tortillas, I feel as though I have also been performing a service for the people I live with… I am their entertainment and the town attraction.  The Gringo who understands 50% of the conversation, drops the Masa occasionally, and simply struggle with something that comes so simply to them.  When it gets boring, my host sister and I also begin singing songs from church – me in English and her in Spanish – simultaneously and in the standard Guatemalan key (not in any key… it’s actually quite a feat) or we have a dance party where she attempts to teach me to dance and then laughs her head off when she realizes that I really wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t have rhythm and then I break out the classic 80s Sprinkler.

It’s okay to stand around and not say a word.   My Spanish is at the point where I can talk conversationally with people who know me and are relatively well educated and know a bit of English.  Aka, my host sister.  For everyone else, she has to translate for me.  So, when she’s occupied, the other tortilla lady and I just stand around and enjoy each other’s presence

The 25 year old peer... with a family.

Small talk can spur big thoughts.  In our enjoying each other’s presence, the tortilla lady asked me how old I am, I told her 25, and she said she is too. That caught me off guard.  She looks relatively young, but she has an 11 year old and a 5 year old and a husband who looks like he’s in his late 30s/40s.  He is.  He was 28 and she 14 when they started their family.

Sometimes you just have to take a break and wash your hands.  Tortillas are easier to make with clean hands, minus the tortilla dough.  In my intense desire to learn, however, I tend to forget this helpful fact and either my tortilla lady friend or host mom has to remind me.  After that break, it suddenly comes together.  Sometimes we just have to step back, wash our hands, become less intricately involved in the situation, and after that, we will be much more successful.

 The USDA Food rules are a lot stricter than here.  As in, they exist and are followed and enforced.  That doesn’t happen here.  I’ll keep my details to that.

pictures of new friends...

Noellia (my host eldest host sister) and Kenya

I don't actually know their names but they are adorable and we have fun

Gloria (host sister) and Steven (I really can't figure out his relationship with the family...)

Kenya and Gloria

Jessica and Kenya

My host siblings and I at the Zoo

Andres and Brandon enjoying the swings

Learning to live with questions

One of the things I think I've learned the most distinctly over the past few weeks is how to know that I'm okay even if I don't know things, and how to live and thrive in the tension of not knowing.  This is the first year since I was 4 that I haven't been in formal education (is preschool formal?), and therefore, the first year that my objective in life is not to master knowing things, but to learn how to notice them, think about them, and go with the flow.
The fact that I'm living in a country where only my second language is spoken makes this lesson of living in the tension of questions much easier to grasp.   Although I am learning a lot more, I am in a world where the only English I encounter is when I am teaching it to my host family, talking on the phone to other volunteers or the states, journaling, or reading.  This leaves me with a lot of questions.

There are three categories of questions that are common in my life.

There are the questions of activities, usually these questions result from someone telling me something numerous times and I obviously did not understand, so then I find myself in the back of a pickup with 10 other people wondering, "where in the world are we going?"  These questions usually are answered in a reasonable amount of time and those answers may or may not lead to more questions.

Then, there are the questions that take some more time to learn the answers to... these are questions of culture, such as, "what is this family's daily schedule?", "why are we walking through a dark alley with a hand trolley full of wet corn?", or "what is the custom at baby showers in this country?"  These questions, I'm learning, are important to ask myself without the objective of judging, simply to learn why people do what they do.  I'm sure that they ask the same questions of me.

Finally, there are the questions that may never be answered, yet are important to ask anyways.  They are also about culture, and for some the answer, "it's cultural" appeases their questions.  That's not true for me.  I want to know WHY, but I'm not sure if I'm equipped to find the answers.  These questions require extra caution, because it's important that I approach them as questions and not as angry rants against the cultural differences in Guatemala, because angry rants without thoughts to back them up tend to be much less fruitful.  Some of the questions are funny, such as, "why do the bathroom signs say to throw your toilet paper in the basket but the basket has the symbol of a recycling bin?", but others are aggravating such as, "why does my 9 year old host brother have homework tonight of writing out all the multiplication tables 1-10 25 times each number?", "why is machismo so prevalent?", or "why are so many girls pregnant?" (the article below... which I just realized is not of the best quality and is also written in Spanish... talks about the influx of pregnancies among young girls.  I began reading it, interested because my 19 year old host sister and her 16 year old husband are expecting their first kid any day now, but then I realized that the article classifies young girls as "ages 10-14"...).

 

Learning to ask, learning to live in tension, and learning to be okay with the tension of the questions has been really good... I highly recommend it.

Here are some pictures from the past two weeks... with their corresponding questions :)

How do you say Baby Shower in Espanol?  Oh right... Baby Shower!!!

 What games do you play at Baby Showers?

You chug Pepsi... the person who chugs fastest wins.  Even if that means you're competing with a baby on your back

You blow up balloons and pop them with by smooshing your and your partners' bellies

You put a Quetzal (coin) between your knees and waddle to a cup trying to drop it in the cup.  You do this if you're dressed for church with the head dressing...

If you're a randomly visiting gringo...

And if you're the mom dressed in the traditional traje

Why do Guatemalans not smile for pictures?  This is the 19 year old mom to be

How are cell phone games so fascinating for boys?

Where ARE we going in that truck?

Why does having this giant mall here feel so weird?

Why is this jaguar in a zoo next to the bus station?

Why does anyone think that having raccoons in a zoo a good idea?

Once again... where are we going in that truck?