Mar. 18, 2003
Panajachel, Guatemala
Current events make me feel like this little newsletter is rather irrelevant. When all hell is about to break loose who wants to read this stuff? Most of it I wrote when it seemed global opposition to the war might prevent it. I think those within the borders of the U.S. don’t realize quite how widespread that opposition is. Of the many people we’ve met from around the world in our travels, opinion has been unanimously against the course the U.S. is taking. But evidently that is not going to be enough. It is ironic that one of the cornerstones of democracy, public opinion, is taking such a beating, at least on a global level. I wonder what we are really making the world safe for?
So, I am going to send this out anyway, just for the record. Read it if or when you feel like it….
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The first-class bus ride back to Guatemala from Nicaragua a month ago was uneventful so in retrospect at least seemed to pass quickly.
It took about twelve hours to get from Managua to San Salvador. Since few, if any, buses travel at night in Central America we had to spend the night there. As soon as we arrived we were advised that the streets of San Salvador were not safe after 8:30 at night. I doubt they are very safe before then either. There was a motel attached to the bus station, which was fortunate for both the hotel and us. Since they had a captive audience they were able to charge double the price the room would have been worth in any other circumstances. We popped out briefly for a quick supper, then scuttled back to our dingy room.
The next day we got into Guatemala City early enough to catch a chicken bus up to Antigua. Antigua has long been known as a charming colonial town and is, by far, Guatemala’s most popular tourist destination. In the past couple of years an enormous amount of money has flowed into Antigua and the town has crossed the line from touristy to trendy.
There are many posh hotels, up-scale shops and restaurants serving a variety if international cuisine. It is starting to feel like a colonial theme park. Even the newly built MacDonalds resembles an elegant 17th-century building. Most of the authentic homes from that era have been restored to their original splendor, or better, and many now house offices, shops and other tourist-oriented businesses.
The flea-bag travelers’ hotel where we usually stay when we are in Antigua has not changed noticeably in at least fifteen years (that I know of). But when we checked in this time we were astonished to find the owners had attempted some improvements, though not enough to elevate it from one star to two.
We didn’t have the budget to take advantage of what Antigua is offering its visitors these days, so after a couple of nights we moved on to Lake Atitlan and the village of San Antonio, where we have spent most of our time the past few years when we’ve come to Guatemala (and where we can rent a humble little room for about $2 dollars a day.)
San Antonio is about the same as always– not much has changed since last year. It is still a dusty little Mayan village, for the most part untouched by tourism. There is a packaged boat tour that takes people to visit three villages on the lake. When they come to San Antonio the boat usually stays about 45 minutes, which is at least a half hour more than necessary. After a quick look around a lot of the tourists just hang out by the boat waiting to leave.
As I’ve written before, my four god-children and their family lived in San Antonio until they moved to the city of Xela a little less than a year ago. What little charm the village had for us seems to have vanished with their absence.
But they aren’t the only ones who aren’t in San Antonio any more. Don Pablo, the kid’s grandfather and the patriarch of the family, died last April. In the past few years he had gradually lost his eyesight and suffered increasingly from various pains and ailments. In spite of everything from hospital tests to divinations from local witch doctors no one was able to determine exactly what was wrong with him.
There is no such thing as malpractice here, so he was often sent home with odd treatments, such as drinking diluted urine (Guatemalan homeopathy). I told him that didn’t seem like a very good idea to me, but he insisted it was a time-honored remedy.
He died on his way to visit a doctor in Xela, and his family buried him there in the city cemetery without ceremony. I was surprised to learn he wasn’t brought back to San Antonio, but I guess the family had its reasons, which I don’t claim to understand… In a village like San Antonio Don Pablo’s absence cannot go unnoticed. But whenever someone asks where he is the family just tells them, “He is in Xela.”
Don Pablo was a remarkable man. In many ways he was like hundreds of other elderly Mayan village men. He always wore the traditional outfit of San Antonio. But I learned early in our acquaintance that it was a mistake to rely on any preconceived ideas I had about men who looked like him. Our first conversation was about satellites and television signals. (I wasn’t able to tell him anything he didn’t already know.) He was self-educated and an avid reader. In spite of his many questions I learned not to assume I knew more than he did.
On the other hand he believed in many things we would consider superstitions. He was intrigued by modern technology and tried to understand as much as possible. But what he couldn’t understand he accepted in a way similar to the way he accepted the curious remedies given to him by dubious healers. Sometimes it was just a matter of faith.
I’ve written before about Don Pablo’s Mitsubishi mini-van. In spite of the fact that is was a worn out pile of junk, and no one in the family knew how to drive, he bought it with the dream of becoming a transportation czar, or something. The mechanical equivalent of a witch doctor temporarily brought it to life a couple years ago and we had a brief misadventure. But except for that it sat parked in front of Don Pablo’s door gathering dust and chickens.
The other day when I realized it was no longer there I asked Petrona, Don Pablo’s oldest daughter, where it was. After the briefest of pauses she said, “It’s in Xela.” I knew what that meant. May it rust in peace.
I was in Xela myself most of last week (in fine health, thank you). I wanted to spend a few more days with my kids before coming home. They are all back in school after a nearly two-month strike by public school teachers. Rolando, their older brother, is attending a private school and was unaffected. Little Sarita, who is five and a half already, has been looking forward to starting school for more than a year, so she was eager to see the strike settled.
Actually it wasn’t really settled, it just ended. The teachers wanted a better salary and improved teaching conditions. The president promised them both when he was elected three years ago. I guess that money was needed elsewhere. The teachers got hungry before they got what they wanted. But there’s another election coming up. I don’t think we’ve heard the last of this issue.
In the city of Xela it is difficult for me to think of activities that will be interesting to all the kids, and to me. We spent a few hours one day at a mall, window shopping and eating ice cream. The mall is three stories high and Sarita seemed to thoroughly enjoy every single stair step, up or down. She proceeded to each step in the most interesting way she could think of which, of course, took quite a bit of time and really annoyed her two older sisters, Yessica and Angelina.
The next day Sarita and I went back by ourselves and she discovered she quite liked having me drag her along the slick floor while she pretended to ski. When we passed the ice cream place she insisted on buying me a cone. What a kid!
One activity we all liked was a trip to the thermal baths in Almolonga. Almolonga is a village a few miles from Xela and there are several bath houses with water piped in from mineral hot springs. In contrast to bath houses in Japan (and San Francisco) the bath houses of Almolonga are a family affair. There are a number of individual rooms with concrete tubs about 5’x6′ wide and a couple feet deep. It is not unusual to see rather large families going into the rooms. I don’t think it is so common for a big white guy to go in with a bunch of little brown kids, but nobody seemed to think it was strange. (A couple of nuns went in just before us. That struck me as a little strange!)
Hot water is not common in Guatemalan homes and baths are unheard of. It was quite a novelty for the kids to splash around in the hot water, and a real luxury for me. It was the best two bucks I’ve spent.
So,that’s about it for this year. I plan to leave for home in about a week. Who knows what will happen between now and then? Faye flew to Canada a couple weeks ago to spend some time with her mom, who has been sick. We hope to meet in Portland, Faye flying from the north and me from the south- if the borders and airports are still open. Then one last bus ride and we’ll be back in Ashland.
As I said at the beginning, at the moment things don’t look good. It feels like we’re on the eve of destruction. The eyes of the world are not only on Iraq but the U.S. I don’t think there are going to be any winners in this one.