Dammit, it is meant this time: no more writing about politics! Some measure of, not courage necessarily, but...audacity! Audacity --this is just a mocking allusion to the new figurehead that everyone in the states so lazily identifies with-- is needed to post things which preoccupy the self and have no relevance to any of your lives.
The only thing that can be said for both poetry (literature in general) and politics --which is to say, that allows for some coherence and continuity to this conscious life-- is that there is a strong concern for things not said, or not said enough. And that the aesthetic impulse, more pampered than most any other (if your single, childless and largely without immediate and challenging social responsibilities), leads me to the agony of considering how the way things are could be so many different ways.
****************************************
Things as hidden,
the inexhaustible loved source
for the simple effort
of keeping some lost thing intact
or of fingers under the crotch
crotch as if putting on a mask
in order to dream.
Some omissions will be emitted
Some omissions inspire reproach
always
reaching another lost detail
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Teaching...learning
The crayon drawing is a gift received in Guatemala by one of our (my) english students, Miriam. This immediately provoked me into telling her about the band DEVO.
Miriam is kind of the leader of the rest of the kids, a real smart trouble maker. We call each other Monstrua y Monstruo.
The volunteer program of the school in which Spanish is being studied is a little disorganized. There is no training for teaching. The volunteers whose Spanish is most advanced simply take charge. However, one cannot expect much since most of these kids have little experience even being in a regular school. Most of their parents cannot read and have little time for the most basic of parent-child interactions.
Thus my other position at the school is that of the caballito or caballo (horse). Two of the boys in particular love to take rides on the shoulders. It´s a lot of fun but no nutritional substitute for my lifestyle back home. Because we are so many thousands of feet above sea level my lungs feel like a smoker´s.
The classroom feels comfortable and you can tell when you really have the kids´attention. My self is now found as the most experienced Spanish speaker in the group that teaches english to the older kids. The acting international coordinator has set our expectations low--otherwise hoplessness would be felt all around. The problems run really deep.
The temptation is felt to take pictures of the water line construction on the school´s block. My dad, a plumber might have some criticisms just by looking at the ditches. On top of the lack of comprehensive sanitation services, mentioned in a previous post (and can someone answer where the hell our garbage goes), there is very poor if any water treatment.
40 + to 60 percent of the women during pregnancy in this country die just prior to child birth. About the same percentage of kids age 3 or younger die from malnourishment.
Many ¨Reds¨ a term of endearment for members of the US Republican party, stolen from Lawrence based writer, Patrick Quinn, and in fact many North Americans in general believe that poverty is caused primarily by laziness. Does this belief of theirs extend to the poverty around the world, it is wondered? The historical iliteracy is astounding.
Almost all of Latin America and much of the third world has suffered from a poverty that can be traced to the issue of Land rights, land use, land exploitation, land theft, land degradation, land ¨expropriation¨. Although there is much evidence of enviornmental degradation prior, the massive inequality started with the arrival of the Spaniards by taking over land that was nurtured by the Mayans (all thirty + groups of them, each with their own language) and pushing them up into the mountains where land was less valuable. This is not simply history. This is still the issue. Most indigenous peoples were subsequently exploited for slavery and then cheap labor. After being ¨freed¨ from slavery it was impossible for many to go back to their way of life since what little land they held onto was in inherantly horrible condition. In most countries where land reform has taken place, like Mexico, the indigenous people are given the crap. It is not a result of self reliant hard work that about 7 families (of European origen and in mansions in the US)own an overwhelming percentage of the land.
It is economics 101: those who have lots of land have the money and thus the political power.
We also know from history that widespread individually owned private property can be an insanely beneficial thing for the public as a whole. This is one of the prime features of classical Liberalism, the foundations of which were made concurrent with the rapid decline of the Spanish empire between the 17th century and early 19th century. During this time the spanish were defeated and most of the leadership was maintained if not transfered to wealthy landowning elites. A kind of feudalism persisted.
Often when debating informally opposing theories of social change with fellow Leftists, the issue always comes back to the origen of private property. How to define it. The legal empire (that is to say the legal literature) protecting oligarchs from conceeding even a small portion of this land back to those who cultivated it in the first place is immense. And how is it possible to have a debate when the indigenous conception of the human relationship with the land is so radically different?
Land reform is possible and has been done in almost every country in the Western hemisphere, but Hati--and Guatemala. In recent years, as most of you know, a huge wave of grassroots activism in Latin America as led to amazing victories for indigenous people--and working people in general. (In hindsight, when we look at the power brokers involved in these victories, they would not have been possible without the help of many non indigenous, non poor and in some cases, even non Latino). In 1954 land reform was almost achieved for Guatemala under the democratically elected presidency of Jacobo Arbenz-Guzman until a CIA backed military coup sent the country back and sent many of the indigenous supporters of the legitimate government back to the mountains. A 36 year civil war followed. The US Supported the thugs, democracy was squashed, intellectuals, activists , students and campesinos (farmers, rural citizens) were arrested, disappeared, tortured and killed.
Bolivia has just won a stunning victory in a recent referendum on the establishment of a new constitution assuring not just land *re*distribution to the indigenous people but assuring that natural and other vital resources, such as gas, water, electricity and communications belong to all bolivians under public trusts. Worker´s rights have now also been written into the constitution. Something that must sound like gibberish to many Estado Unidodensians. Then again, outside of California and a few other places, so does the idea of voting for actual laws.
It does help that Bolivia has Evo Morales, an indigenous man (an Amarya indian) as President, that he actually comes from the same economic background as those who make up a majority of that country.
About the same number of indigenous make up Guatemala, but unlike Bolivia, there is a lack of communication (behind which a practical geographical explanation lies) among the 22 different Mayan clans. Each with their own language. Moreover, a deep suspicion exists among many if not most Mayan decendents towards participating in national or even departmental politics. There are places in this country to which no outsider can go because of the rawness felt over the government sanctioned genocide that took place during the early eighties (over 200,000 thousand Mayans were systematically slaughtered). Corruption in government is also still a problem. Although Alvaro Colom was able to win the 2007 with a huge indigenous turn-out, groundwork has to be laid for a grassroots infrastructure. Most of the indigenous communities are so small and scattered that it is unlikely to see the kind of political coalition that Evo Morales was able to utilize. However the shared experience of poverty (inextricably linked to racism) in numbers are there. Like loosing weight, the simplicity of achieving political victories depends on the numbers.
It feels extremely draining to the body to write about this. But the assumption exists that a lot of if not most of this is new to you.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Retail
In many ways this country serves a Libertarian fantasy (that's capital L, not for the political party necessarily, but for right wing Libertarians). If any zoning laws exist they do not restrict a person from selling almost anything out of his or her house. Only in this atmosphere could an empathy be attained for the L position in the states. Ofcourse the history of Guatemala is entirely different. Vigilantism is very common because the police here, while not corrupt like the police in Mexico, are not very reliable due to the lack of resources. Taxes are avoided frequently.
Sometimes things come across my person that provoke a liking of capitalism. Not love, but some significant measure of affinity.
People produce things here. While the productivity level is not as high as the US (including per capita), the density here is such that one cannot help but noticing all of the factories that make different and useful things. Strangely, tons of used US clothing is being shipped to and sold here. The NYU student that was met by myself and Jessica three and half weeks ago was studying the impacts of it. Every other person seems to sport an MTV backpack(?)--in Xela at least. Laundary mats cost a little bit more but they do your laundry for you. Where are all the factories in the US?
This is not a rhetorical question.
People are always fixing things too. Automobiles especially. There have been no sightings of new car sales lots. But tons of old cars shown individually for sale by a regular neighbor who works a regular job. The local mechanic close to my school is always smiling. Full of greased and dirt, and smiling. If this sounds simply banal and not charmingly banal to you, go outside and take a look.
Of course this means things are always broken. The problem is that there is no developed infrastructure for what is naively referred to here as an "preventative service economy". (And it seems like it would be hard to find a person who coud be called a perfectionist in this country. As opposed to Japan.)
And instead of building a bunch of new ugly suburban houses in patches of potentially productive land, the tons of new construction that is going on my neighborhood in Xela is all being performed in, on and around existing structures. It feels like the past and future all at once.
(With the excessive corn and flour Central American diet, there is no surprise. Thought for awhile that the starch was the cause of my decreased sex drive and need for excessive amounts of sleep. But it just took a while to get used to the altitude.)
The abundance of cars from the 70s also touches the core. Lots of Datsuns! And they are all given those wonderful Electric company Sesame Street bold primary and secondary colors. The lack of new cars on the streets has even allowed me to see the actually unique designs of the cars from the eighties.
Because internet availability at the home is still low, there is an abundance of internet cafes (this person pays $3.00 for 7 hours of internet usage).
And the chcken buses! It is nice to not have to buy a bus ticket. It is nice to be cramed cheek to cheek and shoulder to shoulder in a room full of people. It allows for a very in depth observation of others. Even putting up with all of the street vendors who are allowed to come in before take off to sell junkfood and bric a brac are more than tolerable. Often a hungry vendor will go on in detail about the colorful Disney character designs of a key chain. The desire to say, ¨do you have any cut off limbs to show off instead¨ enters the mind.
It´s hard to get used to: that a large sum of the impoverished in this country have to get by with doing this crap. Who are their employers? In moments of utmost clarity it becomes easier. There is a simple desire on their part to survive another day or week. In this you can see that it´s a human being performing their current craft. At the very least it is easy to respect once one sees the honesty in their eyes. Still a day with the least amount of human interactions involving monetary transactions is ideal.
There is a curisoity that won´t go away. Hard scientific data on the numbers of those in Guatemala doing retail would be very welcome. And how Many of them are actualy small businesses? It´s obvious that those seling food are. (Something crossed my path from a trusted source: the average Guatemalan woman makes over a hundred corn tortillas a day) To what extent is it an indication of what we could define as freedom?
To be continued... socio-economic questions must be asked that are not happening in the brain currently. It can be blamed on a woman.
Sometimes things come across my person that provoke a liking of capitalism. Not love, but some significant measure of affinity.
People produce things here. While the productivity level is not as high as the US (including per capita), the density here is such that one cannot help but noticing all of the factories that make different and useful things. Strangely, tons of used US clothing is being shipped to and sold here. The NYU student that was met by myself and Jessica three and half weeks ago was studying the impacts of it. Every other person seems to sport an MTV backpack(?)--in Xela at least. Laundary mats cost a little bit more but they do your laundry for you. Where are all the factories in the US?
This is not a rhetorical question.
People are always fixing things too. Automobiles especially. There have been no sightings of new car sales lots. But tons of old cars shown individually for sale by a regular neighbor who works a regular job. The local mechanic close to my school is always smiling. Full of greased and dirt, and smiling. If this sounds simply banal and not charmingly banal to you, go outside and take a look.
Of course this means things are always broken. The problem is that there is no developed infrastructure for what is naively referred to here as an "preventative service economy". (And it seems like it would be hard to find a person who coud be called a perfectionist in this country. As opposed to Japan.)
And instead of building a bunch of new ugly suburban houses in patches of potentially productive land, the tons of new construction that is going on my neighborhood in Xela is all being performed in, on and around existing structures. It feels like the past and future all at once.
(With the excessive corn and flour Central American diet, there is no surprise. Thought for awhile that the starch was the cause of my decreased sex drive and need for excessive amounts of sleep. But it just took a while to get used to the altitude.)
The abundance of cars from the 70s also touches the core. Lots of Datsuns! And they are all given those wonderful Electric company Sesame Street bold primary and secondary colors. The lack of new cars on the streets has even allowed me to see the actually unique designs of the cars from the eighties.
Because internet availability at the home is still low, there is an abundance of internet cafes (this person pays $3.00 for 7 hours of internet usage).
And the chcken buses! It is nice to not have to buy a bus ticket. It is nice to be cramed cheek to cheek and shoulder to shoulder in a room full of people. It allows for a very in depth observation of others. Even putting up with all of the street vendors who are allowed to come in before take off to sell junkfood and bric a brac are more than tolerable. Often a hungry vendor will go on in detail about the colorful Disney character designs of a key chain. The desire to say, ¨do you have any cut off limbs to show off instead¨ enters the mind.
It´s hard to get used to: that a large sum of the impoverished in this country have to get by with doing this crap. Who are their employers? In moments of utmost clarity it becomes easier. There is a simple desire on their part to survive another day or week. In this you can see that it´s a human being performing their current craft. At the very least it is easy to respect once one sees the honesty in their eyes. Still a day with the least amount of human interactions involving monetary transactions is ideal.
There is a curisoity that won´t go away. Hard scientific data on the numbers of those in Guatemala doing retail would be very welcome. And how Many of them are actualy small businesses? It´s obvious that those seling food are. (Something crossed my path from a trusted source: the average Guatemalan woman makes over a hundred corn tortillas a day) To what extent is it an indication of what we could define as freedom?
To be continued... socio-economic questions must be asked that are not happening in the brain currently. It can be blamed on a woman.
A contradiction about the country is finally showing up
Every house surrounded by concrete and metal. Barbed wire topping the walls which house the half indoor patio to the front of the living quarters. Many check the little door slot to see who's there before opening the gate. Private security guards are all over.
And yet the people here are surprisingly open and publicly communal. People actually converse all over the streets. The parks actually get played in. Lawrence, KS. does have its South Park, where younger parents with small children can be found every day. But other than Central Park in NY, the eyes have never seen such a per capita use of public park space.
Plus people run mercados (little convenient stores), restaurants, hotels and sell tortillas or fried plantains out of their homes.
And yet the people here are surprisingly open and publicly communal. People actually converse all over the streets. The parks actually get played in. Lawrence, KS. does have its South Park, where younger parents with small children can be found every day. But other than Central Park in NY, the eyes have never seen such a per capita use of public park space.
Plus people run mercados (little convenient stores), restaurants, hotels and sell tortillas or fried plantains out of their homes.
Honeymoons are not for presidents
Excuse the metaphor bashing, but this moment in history where the majority of Progressive minded US citizens bask in the glow at the inauguration first president since LBJ (maybe Carter) to be considered Progressive, the first to have black skin and a non Christian surname must end. Please stop making goo goo eyes towards the screen every time he appears or is talked about. please stop assuming that this president is going to do your will and/or please ask for more out of the history to come.
Granted, amidst the inertia presented by opposition backed by the motives of capital and general political repression, political movements need to be able to speak with one voice, thus human beings inevitably end up attributing (for all intents and purposes)divine power to one human being. It's unavoidable and it's why we, on paper and 8 hrs of less work anyway, celebrate MLK. But the actions of a president, like a party, a nation state or any organization are not holistic entities. They are only the sum of very complex parts that come together by a polyphony of forces. Power relationships are built and nourished, deals are made, some people will get more time to be heard from the decision makers than others. And you are extremely naive if you think that the quality of a person´s logic is what gets his or he point across to the decision maker.
Oh yes, it is not forgotten on my end, we know that you already know all of this. But step back and look. You don't realize that you still act(mostly addressing fellow activists here) under assumptions that contradict this simple insight.
Because his motive is to hold together a winning majority, Obama will very likely continue a lot of really dumb, immoral and perhaps ilegal things. He is going to allow idiotic *non national security related* military spending to increase with out fighting members of Congress. It is Congress after all that forces the Defense Department and the Pentagon to carry on with the buying idiotic cold war toys.
His secretary of agriculture is very close with the corn ethanol lobby. These guys are into selling us into the idea that we can achieve energy and oil independence in part by using ethanol from corn. If you haven't looked into it, you should. To produce Ethanol you actually have to spend more energy, that is to say a below zero net gain. Much of that energy is currently dirty and non renewable. Not to mention the burden it places on food.
Obama is going to continue cultivating the cozy relations we have with the current number one terrorist state, Israel. The US contributes 9 billion a year to this favored nation. Egypt and Columbia (also governments that are currently occupied by thugs) are 2nd and third. A majority of this 9 billion dollars, based on a previously signed agreement between the US and Israel, must be spent on US defense contractors.
Obama, in the spirit of "radical centrisim" --my term for doing something to make every one happy which results in just the opposite-- is going to throw some meaty bones to the very unethical health insurance companies by allowing them to remain in the paracitic business of sickness care. This will be a part of the universal health care plan, that is unless the Single Payer campaign (whose link, http://www.pnhp.org/action/organizations_and_government_bodies_endorsing_hr_676_single_payer.php, cannot be smoothly applied on this current computer) wins out...
This is not a judgement of the man or even the president. A request is being made here: Let´s start thinking in terms of building a progressive constituency connected by a series of issues that we can all more or less agree with. That constiutency is not always going to succede by partisanship. That is of course another problem: identifying with the Democratic party too closely.
Again not a judgement of the party. What the hell is a party? That question is not merely meant to be rhetorical. As with the new president, the party likewise is a maleabe fiction which can mutate into many different things depending on the actions of those engaged in those power relationships. Currently the Dems are largely under the excessive influence of a few private interest who do not share a stake in the public interest. Look at who contributes to each representative´s campaign chest, look at who is drafting the legislation and what Special interest is directly or indirectly funding that legislation. The enemy is not always the Republican party as much as those scattered elements of corporate lobbyist who court both parties.
The problem is that the organizational infrastructure that we have is being utilized too much to simply elect Democrats and, even worse, reelect the same old Democrats who have bought into the status quo (imperial foreign policy, free trade with out fair wages and environmental protection, welfare handouts to factory farmers and deregulation of the financial sector). More effort needs to be made in developing a broad non partisan coalition that acts at the grassroots level. That means more lobbying at the state and US congressional district level. It also means putting more money into public advocacy campaigns. But more important: Progressive lobbyists who have a network of PAC (Political Action Committees) and policy think tanks behind them.
Yes, it is easier said than done. But assuming that long lasting progress is on its way simply by having the Democrats in charge is not doing very much.
Before receiving a straw man arguement response please know that what the activist in me is proposing in this post requires pragmatism.
Granted, amidst the inertia presented by opposition backed by the motives of capital and general political repression, political movements need to be able to speak with one voice, thus human beings inevitably end up attributing (for all intents and purposes)divine power to one human being. It's unavoidable and it's why we, on paper and 8 hrs of less work anyway, celebrate MLK. But the actions of a president, like a party, a nation state or any organization are not holistic entities. They are only the sum of very complex parts that come together by a polyphony of forces. Power relationships are built and nourished, deals are made, some people will get more time to be heard from the decision makers than others. And you are extremely naive if you think that the quality of a person´s logic is what gets his or he point across to the decision maker.
Oh yes, it is not forgotten on my end, we know that you already know all of this. But step back and look. You don't realize that you still act(mostly addressing fellow activists here) under assumptions that contradict this simple insight.
Because his motive is to hold together a winning majority, Obama will very likely continue a lot of really dumb, immoral and perhaps ilegal things. He is going to allow idiotic *non national security related* military spending to increase with out fighting members of Congress. It is Congress after all that forces the Defense Department and the Pentagon to carry on with the buying idiotic cold war toys.
His secretary of agriculture is very close with the corn ethanol lobby. These guys are into selling us into the idea that we can achieve energy and oil independence in part by using ethanol from corn. If you haven't looked into it, you should. To produce Ethanol you actually have to spend more energy, that is to say a below zero net gain. Much of that energy is currently dirty and non renewable. Not to mention the burden it places on food.
Obama is going to continue cultivating the cozy relations we have with the current number one terrorist state, Israel. The US contributes 9 billion a year to this favored nation. Egypt and Columbia (also governments that are currently occupied by thugs) are 2nd and third. A majority of this 9 billion dollars, based on a previously signed agreement between the US and Israel, must be spent on US defense contractors.
Obama, in the spirit of "radical centrisim" --my term for doing something to make every one happy which results in just the opposite-- is going to throw some meaty bones to the very unethical health insurance companies by allowing them to remain in the paracitic business of sickness care. This will be a part of the universal health care plan, that is unless the Single Payer campaign (whose link, http://www.pnhp.org/action/organizations_and_government_bodies_endorsing_hr_676_single_payer.php, cannot be smoothly applied on this current computer) wins out...
This is not a judgement of the man or even the president. A request is being made here: Let´s start thinking in terms of building a progressive constituency connected by a series of issues that we can all more or less agree with. That constiutency is not always going to succede by partisanship. That is of course another problem: identifying with the Democratic party too closely.
Again not a judgement of the party. What the hell is a party? That question is not merely meant to be rhetorical. As with the new president, the party likewise is a maleabe fiction which can mutate into many different things depending on the actions of those engaged in those power relationships. Currently the Dems are largely under the excessive influence of a few private interest who do not share a stake in the public interest. Look at who contributes to each representative´s campaign chest, look at who is drafting the legislation and what Special interest is directly or indirectly funding that legislation. The enemy is not always the Republican party as much as those scattered elements of corporate lobbyist who court both parties.
The problem is that the organizational infrastructure that we have is being utilized too much to simply elect Democrats and, even worse, reelect the same old Democrats who have bought into the status quo (imperial foreign policy, free trade with out fair wages and environmental protection, welfare handouts to factory farmers and deregulation of the financial sector). More effort needs to be made in developing a broad non partisan coalition that acts at the grassroots level. That means more lobbying at the state and US congressional district level. It also means putting more money into public advocacy campaigns. But more important: Progressive lobbyists who have a network of PAC (Political Action Committees) and policy think tanks behind them.
Yes, it is easier said than done. But assuming that long lasting progress is on its way simply by having the Democrats in charge is not doing very much.
Before receiving a straw man arguement response please know that what the activist in me is proposing in this post requires pragmatism.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Misreading from Spanish
From just the three weeks full of mere impressions, the poverty witnessed means almost nothing to me. What´s meant by that is that there is no accessible empathetic laden perception of what the poor go through--more precisely is that what has been witnessed of the people is barely different than back home. People live in houses, put their kids in school, go to work, shop, eat, attend social functions and drive cars. The differences do not seem to lie in abundance vs. scarcity. People here have a lot of (mostly useless) crap here just like in the US.
One big difference is how little the cosmetics of the public and private outdoor spaces seem to matter. Yards do not exist much. No big loss for me. The cemetary to your right speaks for itself. Appearently the public sanitation service is not comprehensive because people burn their garbage or leave it on the ground.
When it is said, that the poverty means almost nothing to me, what is also meant is that an aethestic reverence exists for all of these surroundings. It is an aesthetic pleasure to walk around in hills obviously intended for cow grazing, skipping over cow and dog shit, a pile of ripped plastic, paper and dry grass to get to the top of the final hill, say hola to the cows, homeless dogs and humans only to walk a block full of dirt pits exposing water lines underneath wooden make shift roughly 1 meter long pedestrian bridges and make single-foot-filed steps across the narrow sidewalks to get to school.
And the cemetary speaks for itself.
It must be talked about next: The appearently radically different retail economics of Guatemala. Where 150 page books are expensive and liquor is cheap. Where people sell all kinds of things from there houses.
Poem: ¨Kept¨¨ (to be followed by the landscape that birthed it
KEPT
Sad, kept
in our house
without your
loved shadow
No one believes in shadows
any more
¨Shadow¨ always
refers to something other
than a silhouette on the ground
We try to work up
the concept:
memory as the deity
No one goes for it
Aware of the sad
if not themselves
sad.
kept to themselves
like inside a meme
No light. No high light
on your death.
Sad, kept
in our house
without your
loved shadow
No one believes in shadows
any more
¨Shadow¨ always
refers to something other
than a silhouette on the ground
We try to work up
the concept:
memory as the deity
No one goes for it
Aware of the sad
if not themselves
sad.
kept to themselves
like inside a meme
No light. No high light
on your death.
Xela What?
My sensiblities hate cute as much as the next...cuteness hater. But just to give you a POV of the life being led here. My host brother, David, to the right. He has just picked up a lesson from me on how to shake one´s head and make noises by manipulating the exploding cheeks and frenectomy connecting the gums and inner lips.
The apartment is very nice. The sparseness of it is great. And then there is a subtle haunted feeling one obtains from the acoustics of the concrete edifice. (another Pretty Things song in the head: ¨He´s got one room
in a house of ten¨. Though it is a house of 5) The floors resemble marble, but am not sure.
Alejandra and Estuardo are wonderful hosts. It is very likely that they are younger than me. We talk about food. Alejandra happens to be a very good cook. The nerve is not quite there to tell her to go lighter on the corn and bread. But there may be no substituting them anyway. The difficulty lies in obtaining safe greens in this country. 3 meals a day at home suffices. My body is that of the third student to live with them through El Nahual. They are probably relieved that a vegitarian is not living with them.
The school is in somewhat of a slow period due to the time of year which is like summer break. Plus there is no running water on the block due to major
reconstruction of the water lines.
But the instruction is excellent. And being surrounded by kids for 6 to 15 hours a week is a blast. The clown is easily played. Laughter abounds.The perception of being the odd man out is there. That will always be the case. Por lo tanto, it may be easier to play the clown to a more experienced volunteer´s straight man.
Speaking of that all too humbling and comfortable role. The attempt was made to wash my clothes in a Pila, a three sink counter to be found outside of most Guatemaltecos´ houses. One sink has a washboard like surface. Alejandra laughed at, then pitied me.
Anita, is thought about a lot. Right before, during and after sleep. She´s the Mayan from San Pedro. A cell phone must be obtained this weekend.
Calls within the country. To Anita and the Molina´Garcia family.
Spanish still rusty. This log entry made for a half broken radio waves...like so much that doesn´t work well.... while refugees still seeking asylum amidst the radio anouncer on top of a skaffold, half burnt. Admist a pile of garbage...palid subsistence farmers´ cows. A bomb could go off any minute...at least a cohette (rocket, firecracker), the left-overs from New Years. No where to go but a tidier yard... to be found somewhere...we know it exists. Over.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Oh! This is why they call it a Chicken bus.
The actual finding of a bus that would bring my person to Xela well before the night felt like a success. Jessica is very much missed. But the tranquility that followed our parting constituted one of the best 24 hours of my life.
While waiting on the highway with twenty plus others, easy conversation was made with locals. All friendly and all eager to let me know that they knew where Kansas and Kansas City was. It was much appreciated and still pathetic that my educated self could not reciprocrate. A funeral procession made its way across the road. Women were crying and singing and the casket that was being carried was beautiful. Frankly, more beautiful than any of the pyramids seen in Tikal. Those pyramids are profound, bu not beautiful.
Met a Guatemalan dentist named Jonathan who had worked a few years in Omaha, Nebraska and Harper, Kansas as a farm hand.
Within the last hour and a half, my body was the third on the left seat with one butt cheek out, the other half of me being supported by another fellow in the same spot on the right seat. People came in and out, but there was always only room for body to body and always one to four people forced to stand up. Chicken buses are also characterized by the two people who run the show, the driver and the guy who collects the money, hops around on the outside of the bus packing luggage on the roof and helping the older and crippled passangers on board through the back exit door. This one was, just as the trip to San Pedro a very boyish looking man--more boyish looking than myself. At one point the old man next to me refused to pay, but what looked like insolence then revealed itself as the informal rate for the disabled. The boy moved on to collect from the other new passengers. The old man smiled at me in a semi demented tone: ¨ya!¨
¨huh,¨ my spanish accent asked. Then, grinning big, he raised his shrunken right arm with a very crippled, twisted and almost doll like hand with fingers ten times more bent then those received from my dad over the years of plumbing and softball.
¨Ya¨, he defiantly repeated letting out a gust of the morning breath, then turning his attention towards the alluded to diety-chicken bus celing, almost laughing. ¨Ya!¨ Ya means already.
¨Ya ha pagado?¨ So you´ve already paid, was my response as the subtle increase of bliss fixed with eyes on this happy fellow who was obviously un-suffering something wonderful.
People were all scrunched together in silence. It´s never different: the closer bodies of strangers find themselves together, the more likely they remove themselves from opening their mouths.
A wonderful song led by a strong flamenco styled guitar began to play about a forbidden romance. A lover is telling his beloved that he could lie about everything in the past, change his name and lie about everything he is, but he could not forget the secret he shared with his beloved. The blood was flowing so well across my head. The right pre frontal cortex as well as the left was fairly flexed. During the whole ride the high speed of the bus and the bumps of the road not that much worse than the state of Missouri, were felt.
In the Xela bus station, the filthiest place ever inhabited in my 31 years, the attempt was made to get a hold of the El Nahual (my school) preferred taxi driver, Carlos D´Leon. After wasting a whole quetzal (two phone calls), my attention was turned to the taxis that were already there. Two of them, both appearently competing for my attention. It is sight worth considering for a very long time. The first guy gave me a price while the younger looking second driver was waving his arms at me from behind him. When my light footed body marched up one foot to the second driver, who had a much safer looking car, he indicated the same price. He then gestured for me to go to the car with the other guy.
Once at the home of my host family, Alejandra Reyes and Estuardo Rivas, there was only the desire to explore the roof top with the amazing view and take a cold shower.
First four songs in order that popped into the head (ad hoch, as certain persons would say) while unpacking¨:
¨Who Are You¨ by Tom Waites
¨Janet Jangle¨ by High Llamas
¨13 Blues for 13 Moons¨ by Silver Mt. Zion
¨She Says Good Morning¨ by The Pretty Things
Was reminded that something is always burning in in the air this country. It is killing the lungs more quickly. But it smells so great. My memory has only the wonderful bonfires and barbecues with Aunt Patty and uncle Mike at single digit years of age and the late October bonfires of ¨the poor farm¨of my paternal grandparents to compare. But there are combinations of smells here that will never be experienced En Los Estados Unidos.
While waiting on the highway with twenty plus others, easy conversation was made with locals. All friendly and all eager to let me know that they knew where Kansas and Kansas City was. It was much appreciated and still pathetic that my educated self could not reciprocrate. A funeral procession made its way across the road. Women were crying and singing and the casket that was being carried was beautiful. Frankly, more beautiful than any of the pyramids seen in Tikal. Those pyramids are profound, bu not beautiful.
Met a Guatemalan dentist named Jonathan who had worked a few years in Omaha, Nebraska and Harper, Kansas as a farm hand.
Within the last hour and a half, my body was the third on the left seat with one butt cheek out, the other half of me being supported by another fellow in the same spot on the right seat. People came in and out, but there was always only room for body to body and always one to four people forced to stand up. Chicken buses are also characterized by the two people who run the show, the driver and the guy who collects the money, hops around on the outside of the bus packing luggage on the roof and helping the older and crippled passangers on board through the back exit door. This one was, just as the trip to San Pedro a very boyish looking man--more boyish looking than myself. At one point the old man next to me refused to pay, but what looked like insolence then revealed itself as the informal rate for the disabled. The boy moved on to collect from the other new passengers. The old man smiled at me in a semi demented tone: ¨ya!¨
¨huh,¨ my spanish accent asked. Then, grinning big, he raised his shrunken right arm with a very crippled, twisted and almost doll like hand with fingers ten times more bent then those received from my dad over the years of plumbing and softball.
¨Ya¨, he defiantly repeated letting out a gust of the morning breath, then turning his attention towards the alluded to diety-chicken bus celing, almost laughing. ¨Ya!¨ Ya means already.
¨Ya ha pagado?¨ So you´ve already paid, was my response as the subtle increase of bliss fixed with eyes on this happy fellow who was obviously un-suffering something wonderful.
People were all scrunched together in silence. It´s never different: the closer bodies of strangers find themselves together, the more likely they remove themselves from opening their mouths.
A wonderful song led by a strong flamenco styled guitar began to play about a forbidden romance. A lover is telling his beloved that he could lie about everything in the past, change his name and lie about everything he is, but he could not forget the secret he shared with his beloved. The blood was flowing so well across my head. The right pre frontal cortex as well as the left was fairly flexed. During the whole ride the high speed of the bus and the bumps of the road not that much worse than the state of Missouri, were felt.
In the Xela bus station, the filthiest place ever inhabited in my 31 years, the attempt was made to get a hold of the El Nahual (my school) preferred taxi driver, Carlos D´Leon. After wasting a whole quetzal (two phone calls), my attention was turned to the taxis that were already there. Two of them, both appearently competing for my attention. It is sight worth considering for a very long time. The first guy gave me a price while the younger looking second driver was waving his arms at me from behind him. When my light footed body marched up one foot to the second driver, who had a much safer looking car, he indicated the same price. He then gestured for me to go to the car with the other guy.
Once at the home of my host family, Alejandra Reyes and Estuardo Rivas, there was only the desire to explore the roof top with the amazing view and take a cold shower.
First four songs in order that popped into the head (ad hoch, as certain persons would say) while unpacking¨:
¨Who Are You¨ by Tom Waites
¨Janet Jangle¨ by High Llamas
¨13 Blues for 13 Moons¨ by Silver Mt. Zion
¨She Says Good Morning¨ by The Pretty Things
Was reminded that something is always burning in in the air this country. It is killing the lungs more quickly. But it smells so great. My memory has only the wonderful bonfires and barbecues with Aunt Patty and uncle Mike at single digit years of age and the late October bonfires of ¨the poor farm¨of my paternal grandparents to compare. But there are combinations of smells here that will never be experienced En Los Estados Unidos.
Monday, January 12, 2009
IT´S NOT JUST THE MAGIC STUFF THAT THE ISRAELIS PUT IN THE ICE CREAM
The bus ride from Xela was the best yet. Through out the dangerous school bus´s path we came upon small indigenous villages some of them that sold all of the main brands of Guatemala, Tigo (cellular stuff), Claro (cellular stuff again), Gallo (beer) and Alka-Selzer. A voluntary fantasy appeared of me living in one of these places, riding around in a mule (mules handle the topography better than horses) sharing the highway with beat up automobiles as we turn steep narrow roads, a foot away from a fall down the mountain.
San Pedro la Laguna, a small frenetic and busy town of about 6,000 bordering the lake of Atitlan was to be our longest stay anywhere as tourists. We fell in love with it instantly. The whistles and Oomph, Oomph Oomphs did not spring up much, but the people, especially the children, were all super friendly. Jessica was still bummed out that no one wanted to party in Xela, so our goal was to find dancing. The attempt was made to master the Salsa at a place called Chile. Mind you, these hips are powerful fucking forces on the dance floor. But the series of steps to learning Salsa is so simple that it renders them useless. At first there was a determination to master the dance with Jessica, who is an extremely talented and long time trained dancer, but either Jessica´s ADD kicked in or she had no patience for learning with shabby me. To the bar where a girl from Wasilla Alaska was bartending. Back in Lawrence, a relationship was recently had with a girl from Wasilla and gosh darn it, it´s always fun to get a general consensus attitude about the same place from multiple sources. The night went on in lively conversation with a group of four friends, guys from Scotland. The opportunity was had to translate from Spanish to English and back between the Brit (living in Scotland), Joe and French girl who knew no english. By the time the speaking grew to second nature my person was probably too drunk to carry on with her. While her spanish was already atrocious. Intresting how presciently bad pronunciation of Spanish becomes from the mouths of Europeans and Asians.
The walk home was somewhat of a success although we had planned for a taxi to be there since almost all of the bars were located on the doc right behind us. The success was that Jessica and myself were civil to each other and found our hotel like a team. (less than 6 football fields between hotel Peneleu and Chile and it took more than an hour to get home).
In the morning we were on our way to a hipper hotel. Hipper, according to an unnamed travel book that has a household name. Also withheld from this post is the name of the hotel. Though it would be fairly easy to figure it out. It is owned by some Israelis who like to have the proverbial good time. Most of the guests there were also Israeli. All of the guests, we noticed were extremely good looking twenty somethings; it should be qualified that they resemble conventionally beautiful people. Healthy beautiful people, some to the point where they bordered on boring looking. The would-be concierge, Tomas a slightly older guy from Belgium appeared to Jessica as a Luke Perry (Beverly Hills 90210 fame) look alike. He certainly dressed like it. Further down you´ll see my visual reference for the guy. From the very beginning, Jessica astutely felt an atmosphere of cliqueishness. It was not that the guests were being intentionally exclusive. All of them were very nice and invited us to sit with them. But they couldn´t help but speaking their womb comforting tongue of hebrew. Almost none of them spoke any Spanish and when you tried to speak it to the ones who did, they looked annoyed and told you to speak english.
Overall, we were made to feel at home there amid the staw bale and palm tree thatched canopy and the middle eastern style seating in the back. Everything on the menu, especially the Israeli stuff was scrumptous. Never had Taboule like that before. And the Bango Lassie with ice cream...and cookies, which Tomas made hints about several times.
Inspite of a hang-over, a strong attempt was made to observe the social dynamic in the hotel. All of the people working in the kitchen were Guatemaltecas. Mayan girls, mostly in their traditional dresses---aesthetic note: one of the best things about the places so far inhabited by my person in Guatemala is the shortage of obnoxious women´s clothing and women´s clothing stores. For the most part, the women are either dressed in the mildy conservative traditional and colorful Mayan dresses or are very non descript, almost tom boyish. This is my preference. Granted there are a lot of hot girls who dress up. At the very least my longtime purveyorship of pornography has desynsitized me into accepting that some hot women like to dress up like some semi distant relation to the western circus clown. Ahh, digression.
The girls in the kitchen were giggly. When they flirt they are confident enough not to be coy. (big sigh of contentment). After making a little conversation with them it became obvious that a rapport was established between myself and a girl named Anita. The rest of the group teased her, asked if Jessica was mi novia and when the accurate response was given (only when she needs to protect her self), they pulled Anita´s hand up. A streak of determination led me to the counter across from the hotel kitchen many times. Unfortunately the hangover set the body back another day.
The attempt was made more than once to fraternize with our friendly Israeli neighbors in room 3, but they were truly boring, bordering on vaccuous. Questions were asked from me about the Hebrew language and they didn´t have any knowledge or intrest. At one point, Simon, the one who made me feel best, said that Hebrew was the oldest language in the world. That is clearly not true. He could have meant that it´s the oldest language of the Jewish people since the topic started by my seeking further elaboration on the impressive fact that Hebrew was a once dead and recently revived language concurring with the establishment of the Israeli state. Still a bad taste in my mouth settled in. Other times my curiosity about their culture reached out but all they could do was wave their dicks around in praise of everything Israeli.
One morning for breakfast while the eyes an conscious mind were reading the Prensa Libre, Simon came to sit with me. He asked if there was any news about Israel. While it makes sense to want to know what`s going on in one´s country, he explained that he only looked at the paper for news about Israel. By the end of that day it was clear to me how bankrupt the whole scene was. Understandably, there is a lot of the natural pre-nation state world to explore in Guatemala, the horses, the boats in the lake, the mountains and the ruins. But how is it possible for one to be either completely without curiosity or able to ignore the curiosity within about the living breathing culture he or she must navigate amidst. The ethnocentricsm was disconcerting and it made me think of numerous examples of the european explorers and conquerors. Coming to a land and trying to make their posts resemble back home.
Jessica is a vegiterian, which means she has to take her protein powder with her in Guatemala. Otherwise she sleeps. We slept more than anything else those last two nights in San Pedro Laguna. The hangover was my first day´s excuse, and through out that night Jessica expressed a slightly inebriated feeling of pre-enlightenment. We had a good conversation as it seemed that she had finished a lot of reflection. The eyes and ears had never witnessed her like that before. The final day, only the desire to read poetry and flirt with Anita lasted longer than the chance to go out. In the morning Jessica and myself agreed to spend time in the afternoon walking around the labrynth of San Pedro, which has an absence of streeet signs, trying to find bus tickets to our next, separate, destinations. Because of the magic stuff they put in the ice cream drink, it took a lot of funny effort in the midday. Jessica brought in a couple puppies to cuddle with us. At one point, balls of fury laughter blasted out of our room due to the dog licking my left ear. Still insanely stoned, we finally made it out to a host of taxis and persons on the street. It seemed impossible. The only place that was open to sell tickets was an actual travel agency. We found out after going in two circles, that other place was across the street from that agency. A crotchetyold man --crotchety for jovial Guatemala any way-- said that he could sell tickets , but we´d have to come back at 7 at night to buy them. `por que no esta abierto hasta siete de las noche`, I asked. He would only answer in repeating: ``Esta abierto en siete de la noche. Venga entonces¨ (it´s open at 7:00 PM. Come back then.)
Still stoned and immersed in the confusing beauty of the narrow cobble stone streets, we decided to take care of things later. The desire to not speak any Spanish was strong. Our taxi driver back to the hotel wanted to make conversation. He was humored and the humor was worth it. Of course he wanted to know if Jessica was my girlfriend. ``Solamente cuando necesita protegerse`` which means, only when she needs to protect herself. At this he started laughing the ýou guys are alright´ laugh.
After making him laugh a little more in total self deprication, the request was made to obtain a story of the worst client. He replied that the worst are the Israelis. Although not the answer to my question it was quite revealing. ¨Todos de ellos?¨ came the question from my mouth.
¨Si¨, he responded, going on at length about how snobbish they are and how they always complain about the prices of things.
Jessica and myself went to our room and cuddled with the puppies. More sleep was obtained and dream was had in which appeared the belief that my former step father, who killed himself 4 and a half years ago, was alive and writing a vampire novel. Garry Schulkind had also fit a racist stereotype (Jewish American). The dream was surely triggered by the atmosphere.
After waking up, all that was wanted of me was a nice long read. Jessica talked me into hanging out in the dining room area where Tomas was to schmooze. The night seemed to go on for ever, and the only interesting thing to come out of Tomas´s mouth was when he was responding to Jessica´s zany thoughts-- only because the things he said set the scene for more of her zany comments. There was another waiter guy, 40 something, curly haired, obviously gay, very theatrical, confrontational in a fun way, wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt and a leather vest. He set the shores of the scene wider lensed--at least we had a lot to laugh about. Actually the guy reminded me of Axon, the police chief in the 1973 Alejandro Jodorowski film, ¨The Holy Mountain¨. He´s the one that performs the public castrations of pubescent boys, collects their scrodums in jars and then introduces them to the holy book that is all about wourshiping him. After telling him what my occupation was back home, Tomas went out of his way to say that it sounds boring. This didn´t bother me at all, but it was interesting how much he had to repeat himself as if he did not want to hear a contrary POV. Our police chief waiter pointed out to Tomas the present excitement of Tomas´s employment at the hotel. It was then that my famous person association was gained. Tomas from the eyebrows up looked like a mid sixties Paul Newman. For what it´s worth.
We laid out the story of our misadventure for the day. Tomas had confirmed that it was the cookies in the lassi that made us feel the way we did. They both laid out suggestions for getting out of San Pedro Laguna. For Jessica a ride with a professional streamlined bus might be difficult to obtain the next day. My best bet was a boat to Panachjel, then a bus to Xela. Another option was a chicken bus. ¨Chicken bus¨, Jessica exclaimed. The image was strong¨riding on the back of a wagon truck surrounded by chickens. She wanted to ride it. Both Tomas and the chief made it sound like it was not a fun time.
The next day, Anita´s phone number was obtained, and she was promised a visit in two weeks from then. She and the town were too beatiful not to come back to, even if it required walking back to the hotel and sharing excellent food with the arrogant Israelis. In the end we found a chicken bus that would take us both to our separate destinations. It was no different than the school bus we took to San Pedro. Er, the bus by itself was no different.
The walk home was somewhat of a success although we had planned for a taxi to be there since almost all of the bars were located on the doc right behind us. The success was that Jessica and myself were civil to each other and found our hotel like a team. (less than 6 football fields between hotel Peneleu and Chile and it took more than an hour to get home).
In the morning we were on our way to a hipper hotel. Hipper, according to an unnamed travel book that has a household name. Also withheld from this post is the name of the hotel. Though it would be fairly easy to figure it out. It is owned by some Israelis who like to have the proverbial good time. Most of the guests there were also Israeli. All of the guests, we noticed were extremely good looking twenty somethings; it should be qualified that they resemble conventionally beautiful people. Healthy beautiful people, some to the point where they bordered on boring looking. The would-be concierge, Tomas a slightly older guy from Belgium appeared to Jessica as a Luke Perry (Beverly Hills 90210 fame) look alike. He certainly dressed like it. Further down you´ll see my visual reference for the guy. From the very beginning, Jessica astutely felt an atmosphere of cliqueishness. It was not that the guests were being intentionally exclusive. All of them were very nice and invited us to sit with them. But they couldn´t help but speaking their womb comforting tongue of hebrew. Almost none of them spoke any Spanish and when you tried to speak it to the ones who did, they looked annoyed and told you to speak english.
Overall, we were made to feel at home there amid the staw bale and palm tree thatched canopy and the middle eastern style seating in the back. Everything on the menu, especially the Israeli stuff was scrumptous. Never had Taboule like that before. And the Bango Lassie with ice cream...and cookies, which Tomas made hints about several times.
Inspite of a hang-over, a strong attempt was made to observe the social dynamic in the hotel. All of the people working in the kitchen were Guatemaltecas. Mayan girls, mostly in their traditional dresses---aesthetic note: one of the best things about the places so far inhabited by my person in Guatemala is the shortage of obnoxious women´s clothing and women´s clothing stores. For the most part, the women are either dressed in the mildy conservative traditional and colorful Mayan dresses or are very non descript, almost tom boyish. This is my preference. Granted there are a lot of hot girls who dress up. At the very least my longtime purveyorship of pornography has desynsitized me into accepting that some hot women like to dress up like some semi distant relation to the western circus clown. Ahh, digression.
The girls in the kitchen were giggly. When they flirt they are confident enough not to be coy. (big sigh of contentment). After making a little conversation with them it became obvious that a rapport was established between myself and a girl named Anita. The rest of the group teased her, asked if Jessica was mi novia and when the accurate response was given (only when she needs to protect her self), they pulled Anita´s hand up. A streak of determination led me to the counter across from the hotel kitchen many times. Unfortunately the hangover set the body back another day.
The attempt was made more than once to fraternize with our friendly Israeli neighbors in room 3, but they were truly boring, bordering on vaccuous. Questions were asked from me about the Hebrew language and they didn´t have any knowledge or intrest. At one point, Simon, the one who made me feel best, said that Hebrew was the oldest language in the world. That is clearly not true. He could have meant that it´s the oldest language of the Jewish people since the topic started by my seeking further elaboration on the impressive fact that Hebrew was a once dead and recently revived language concurring with the establishment of the Israeli state. Still a bad taste in my mouth settled in. Other times my curiosity about their culture reached out but all they could do was wave their dicks around in praise of everything Israeli.
One morning for breakfast while the eyes an conscious mind were reading the Prensa Libre, Simon came to sit with me. He asked if there was any news about Israel. While it makes sense to want to know what`s going on in one´s country, he explained that he only looked at the paper for news about Israel. By the end of that day it was clear to me how bankrupt the whole scene was. Understandably, there is a lot of the natural pre-nation state world to explore in Guatemala, the horses, the boats in the lake, the mountains and the ruins. But how is it possible for one to be either completely without curiosity or able to ignore the curiosity within about the living breathing culture he or she must navigate amidst. The ethnocentricsm was disconcerting and it made me think of numerous examples of the european explorers and conquerors. Coming to a land and trying to make their posts resemble back home.
Jessica is a vegiterian, which means she has to take her protein powder with her in Guatemala. Otherwise she sleeps. We slept more than anything else those last two nights in San Pedro Laguna. The hangover was my first day´s excuse, and through out that night Jessica expressed a slightly inebriated feeling of pre-enlightenment. We had a good conversation as it seemed that she had finished a lot of reflection. The eyes and ears had never witnessed her like that before. The final day, only the desire to read poetry and flirt with Anita lasted longer than the chance to go out. In the morning Jessica and myself agreed to spend time in the afternoon walking around the labrynth of San Pedro, which has an absence of streeet signs, trying to find bus tickets to our next, separate, destinations. Because of the magic stuff they put in the ice cream drink, it took a lot of funny effort in the midday. Jessica brought in a couple puppies to cuddle with us. At one point, balls of fury laughter blasted out of our room due to the dog licking my left ear. Still insanely stoned, we finally made it out to a host of taxis and persons on the street. It seemed impossible. The only place that was open to sell tickets was an actual travel agency. We found out after going in two circles, that other place was across the street from that agency. A crotchetyold man --crotchety for jovial Guatemala any way-- said that he could sell tickets , but we´d have to come back at 7 at night to buy them. `por que no esta abierto hasta siete de las noche`, I asked. He would only answer in repeating: ``Esta abierto en siete de la noche. Venga entonces¨ (it´s open at 7:00 PM. Come back then.)
Still stoned and immersed in the confusing beauty of the narrow cobble stone streets, we decided to take care of things later. The desire to not speak any Spanish was strong. Our taxi driver back to the hotel wanted to make conversation. He was humored and the humor was worth it. Of course he wanted to know if Jessica was my girlfriend. ``Solamente cuando necesita protegerse`` which means, only when she needs to protect herself. At this he started laughing the ýou guys are alright´ laugh.
After making him laugh a little more in total self deprication, the request was made to obtain a story of the worst client. He replied that the worst are the Israelis. Although not the answer to my question it was quite revealing. ¨Todos de ellos?¨ came the question from my mouth.
¨Si¨, he responded, going on at length about how snobbish they are and how they always complain about the prices of things.
Jessica and myself went to our room and cuddled with the puppies. More sleep was obtained and dream was had in which appeared the belief that my former step father, who killed himself 4 and a half years ago, was alive and writing a vampire novel. Garry Schulkind had also fit a racist stereotype (Jewish American). The dream was surely triggered by the atmosphere.
After waking up, all that was wanted of me was a nice long read. Jessica talked me into hanging out in the dining room area where Tomas was to schmooze. The night seemed to go on for ever, and the only interesting thing to come out of Tomas´s mouth was when he was responding to Jessica´s zany thoughts-- only because the things he said set the scene for more of her zany comments. There was another waiter guy, 40 something, curly haired, obviously gay, very theatrical, confrontational in a fun way, wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt and a leather vest. He set the shores of the scene wider lensed--at least we had a lot to laugh about. Actually the guy reminded me of Axon, the police chief in the 1973 Alejandro Jodorowski film, ¨The Holy Mountain¨. He´s the one that performs the public castrations of pubescent boys, collects their scrodums in jars and then introduces them to the holy book that is all about wourshiping him. After telling him what my occupation was back home, Tomas went out of his way to say that it sounds boring. This didn´t bother me at all, but it was interesting how much he had to repeat himself as if he did not want to hear a contrary POV. Our police chief waiter pointed out to Tomas the present excitement of Tomas´s employment at the hotel. It was then that my famous person association was gained. Tomas from the eyebrows up looked like a mid sixties Paul Newman. For what it´s worth.
We laid out the story of our misadventure for the day. Tomas had confirmed that it was the cookies in the lassi that made us feel the way we did. They both laid out suggestions for getting out of San Pedro Laguna. For Jessica a ride with a professional streamlined bus might be difficult to obtain the next day. My best bet was a boat to Panachjel, then a bus to Xela. Another option was a chicken bus. ¨Chicken bus¨, Jessica exclaimed. The image was strong¨riding on the back of a wagon truck surrounded by chickens. She wanted to ride it. Both Tomas and the chief made it sound like it was not a fun time.
The next day, Anita´s phone number was obtained, and she was promised a visit in two weeks from then. She and the town were too beatiful not to come back to, even if it required walking back to the hotel and sharing excellent food with the arrogant Israelis. In the end we found a chicken bus that would take us both to our separate destinations. It was no different than the school bus we took to San Pedro. Er, the bus by itself was no different.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A la vuelta a Guate y entonces Xela
No diarrhea yet.
In Guate the pleasure of meeting Miguel Angil Garcia, the husband of Telma (Jessica´s aunt)was had. Telma was sweet enough to tell him of the previous search for a novel by Miguel Ángel Asturias, ¨Los Hombres de Maize¨. (This was primarily the novel that won the Guatemalteco the Nobel and Lenin prizes. It details the lives of traditional Mayans.) Miguel took me to the store to obtain it. On the way we got a chance to talk about many things. He talks much slower so naturally there was never a problem understanding him (thus boosting my already undeserved confidence). He's in fairly bad health and a curiosity arose as to whether he had experienced a mild stroke that causes him to talk and move slow. by the looks of him, he could not be more than 65. And during the drive he was going much slower than Telma. Worry came from under my chest and images were put voluntarily into my head of a nightmare scenerio in which he dies of a heart attack, either on the road or in the store.
Miguel treated me to coffee and went on at personal length about his two full grown children who live in the states and the beachfront hotel he recently bought subsequent to his newfound restlessness in retirement. It was so nice to have that kind of conversation in Spanish again. Un millon de gracias a mi amiga de Panama que vive en Lawrence, Duby cordoba!
Later that evening, we had a light dinner, as is the general custom with dinner in Guatemala, follwed by the last night of their traditional Catholic celebration. Pictures were taken and Maracas and wood blocks were shaken in between the mostly Mamatina led encantations. Sometimes the question is wanted to be asked: who is this jesus fellow? But there is no innocence in it. Just a desire to remind the religious of their anthropomorphic tendancies. Everyone was so kind. Telma made sure to offer their contact information in case something was needed from my quasi green person.
A wonderful 4 hr bus ride to Xela the next day brought Jessica and myself closer together after a couple nasty spats earlier in the week. Xela was more beautiful than imagined. One curiosity is that many of the regular newspapers in Guatemala also contain tabloid features. A wrinkly old women-little boy in a sparkely goun and bouffant hairdew predicting the fate of 2009 bordered on the next page by a report on the recent avalanche that killed over 35 people in the department of Verapaz.
Xela was very close to what had been imagined in my brain except that in those images the sun was always at late afternoon and the surrounding areas of interest were always to the north. We managed to find El Nahaul, my school, and met its director (his name escapes me right now). His face seemed very tired, peaceful but extremely intelligent. He was on crutches and interestingly enough our taxi driver of his recomendation, Carlos D´Leon, had also broken something.
We stayed in the Black Cat hostel. 60 quetzales (about 8 or so dollars) including free breakfast was more expensive than what we were used to. Tourists with whom instincts of warm comaraderie naturally sprung up in an instant were finally met. Two girls from Austin in particular, Andrea and Xoe cought my ears and eyes. We talked about Spanish (in English and Spanish), Marxism, George Orwell, Austin and much more. It must be said that a little aversion is felt to those who want to speak English. Xela is ideal for me because it does not rely on tourism and most all of the non Spanish speaking people there (other than perhaps a Mayan population) were there to learn Spanish. Jessica was not as at home because the kids staying there were less social and more studious. Another girl with whom my words were exchanged was an NYU grad student doing research on Central American garment cooperatives. Another was a handsome and pensive skater from Portland. He accepted our invitation to drink some of our wine, but it was obvious to me that he was more interested in reading his book (travel book about Africa by a Polish journalist). Dancing was on Our minds and we finally found the Salsa place listed in the tour guide. Strangely, you had to walk into the building to see the sign with the bar´s name. It took a lot of fighting with Jessica to get there and in the end, there were not enough people in the room to make her want to get the dancing bug out. Walking all those many blocks sufficed for the body´s exercise and we obtained good sleep.
The next morning we obtained our free breakfast and information needed to get to San Pedro for the afternoon. Traveling with someone as flighty with Jessica is difficult. A temptation was felt to stay in Xela,but it may not have been safe for her to travel alone. Moreover, my pockets would not empty as fast with Jessica. Contact information was exchanged with Andrea and Xoe (Xoe is single and cute as a Mario Bros. toadstool´s button, next to a sign that says no toads allowed). after a wonderful and candid exchange of simple words, a mental note was also made telling me to build a rapport with the Black Cat´s cleaning girl named Rosa when I returned.
Another thing that may have contributed to Jessica´s luke warm feel for xela was that we actually came across extremely rude people at this cosomopolitan restauraunt. It may be that they had a problem with Jessica´s persistent english. Also, in Xela, all of the guys whistle at cute girls. Jessica in her hipster above knee length vintage dress, stood out. By the end of our time there, we had distinguished three local sounds of the horny hombres of Xela. two of them cannot be reproduced. Is there a typographical language for whistles?
But the other one goes like: OOMPH! OOOMPH! OOOMPH!
Random and perhaps all unflattering notes about guatemala:
Roosters always crow in the morning--you know the sound.
So many locals have absolutely no interest in avoiding litter. It is very common to see a person throw a food wrapper on the ground. At the 100 busses or more station, my left over food had to be dropped by the edge of the road next to a completely trashed creek of water because the only trash can looking things were for the containment of bus fuel.
Mr. Pollo, Pollo Campero and Pollo Reye are the kings of fast food Guatemala
Public restrooms suck a tourist´s ass!
But no diarrhea yet.
In Guate the pleasure of meeting Miguel Angil Garcia, the husband of Telma (Jessica´s aunt)was had. Telma was sweet enough to tell him of the previous search for a novel by Miguel Ángel Asturias, ¨Los Hombres de Maize¨. (This was primarily the novel that won the Guatemalteco the Nobel and Lenin prizes. It details the lives of traditional Mayans.) Miguel took me to the store to obtain it. On the way we got a chance to talk about many things. He talks much slower so naturally there was never a problem understanding him (thus boosting my already undeserved confidence). He's in fairly bad health and a curiosity arose as to whether he had experienced a mild stroke that causes him to talk and move slow. by the looks of him, he could not be more than 65. And during the drive he was going much slower than Telma. Worry came from under my chest and images were put voluntarily into my head of a nightmare scenerio in which he dies of a heart attack, either on the road or in the store.
Miguel treated me to coffee and went on at personal length about his two full grown children who live in the states and the beachfront hotel he recently bought subsequent to his newfound restlessness in retirement. It was so nice to have that kind of conversation in Spanish again. Un millon de gracias a mi amiga de Panama que vive en Lawrence, Duby cordoba!
Later that evening, we had a light dinner, as is the general custom with dinner in Guatemala, follwed by the last night of their traditional Catholic celebration. Pictures were taken and Maracas and wood blocks were shaken in between the mostly Mamatina led encantations. Sometimes the question is wanted to be asked: who is this jesus fellow? But there is no innocence in it. Just a desire to remind the religious of their anthropomorphic tendancies. Everyone was so kind. Telma made sure to offer their contact information in case something was needed from my quasi green person.
A wonderful 4 hr bus ride to Xela the next day brought Jessica and myself closer together after a couple nasty spats earlier in the week. Xela was more beautiful than imagined. One curiosity is that many of the regular newspapers in Guatemala also contain tabloid features. A wrinkly old women-little boy in a sparkely goun and bouffant hairdew predicting the fate of 2009 bordered on the next page by a report on the recent avalanche that killed over 35 people in the department of Verapaz.
Xela was very close to what had been imagined in my brain except that in those images the sun was always at late afternoon and the surrounding areas of interest were always to the north. We managed to find El Nahaul, my school, and met its director (his name escapes me right now). His face seemed very tired, peaceful but extremely intelligent. He was on crutches and interestingly enough our taxi driver of his recomendation, Carlos D´Leon, had also broken something.
We stayed in the Black Cat hostel. 60 quetzales (about 8 or so dollars) including free breakfast was more expensive than what we were used to. Tourists with whom instincts of warm comaraderie naturally sprung up in an instant were finally met. Two girls from Austin in particular, Andrea and Xoe cought my ears and eyes. We talked about Spanish (in English and Spanish), Marxism, George Orwell, Austin and much more. It must be said that a little aversion is felt to those who want to speak English. Xela is ideal for me because it does not rely on tourism and most all of the non Spanish speaking people there (other than perhaps a Mayan population) were there to learn Spanish. Jessica was not as at home because the kids staying there were less social and more studious. Another girl with whom my words were exchanged was an NYU grad student doing research on Central American garment cooperatives. Another was a handsome and pensive skater from Portland. He accepted our invitation to drink some of our wine, but it was obvious to me that he was more interested in reading his book (travel book about Africa by a Polish journalist). Dancing was on Our minds and we finally found the Salsa place listed in the tour guide. Strangely, you had to walk into the building to see the sign with the bar´s name. It took a lot of fighting with Jessica to get there and in the end, there were not enough people in the room to make her want to get the dancing bug out. Walking all those many blocks sufficed for the body´s exercise and we obtained good sleep.
The next morning we obtained our free breakfast and information needed to get to San Pedro for the afternoon. Traveling with someone as flighty with Jessica is difficult. A temptation was felt to stay in Xela,but it may not have been safe for her to travel alone. Moreover, my pockets would not empty as fast with Jessica. Contact information was exchanged with Andrea and Xoe (Xoe is single and cute as a Mario Bros. toadstool´s button, next to a sign that says no toads allowed). after a wonderful and candid exchange of simple words, a mental note was also made telling me to build a rapport with the Black Cat´s cleaning girl named Rosa when I returned.
Another thing that may have contributed to Jessica´s luke warm feel for xela was that we actually came across extremely rude people at this cosomopolitan restauraunt. It may be that they had a problem with Jessica´s persistent english. Also, in Xela, all of the guys whistle at cute girls. Jessica in her hipster above knee length vintage dress, stood out. By the end of our time there, we had distinguished three local sounds of the horny hombres of Xela. two of them cannot be reproduced. Is there a typographical language for whistles?
But the other one goes like: OOMPH! OOOMPH! OOOMPH!
Random and perhaps all unflattering notes about guatemala:
Roosters always crow in the morning--you know the sound.
So many locals have absolutely no interest in avoiding litter. It is very common to see a person throw a food wrapper on the ground. At the 100 busses or more station, my left over food had to be dropped by the edge of the road next to a completely trashed creek of water because the only trash can looking things were for the containment of bus fuel.
Mr. Pollo, Pollo Campero and Pollo Reye are the kings of fast food Guatemala
Public restrooms suck a tourist´s ass!
But no diarrhea yet.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
History as Playground As opposed to Means of Improving the Lot
The Notion of empire, and colonization is inescapable. It is not resonating through the emotion of guilt. But my sense of justice gets its exercise. A desire exists to arrive at the very least a thesis if not an entire body part of work that raises all of the essential questions about what it means to be connected to an empire, what it means to be at both of its ends and how any one person accounts for their role. Moralism creeps into the mix and just arrests my center of gravity (i.e., kills creativity) to that of the political organizer (because action is what matters, not expressing moral sentiments (which are often the height of inaction, but still inaction).
But something got...saved...from the burnout that preoccupation with human rights and the like brings. A month ago my conscious mind with eyes came across a book review in the NY Times. A new one about the British empire. Its photographs of the functionaries working under the british viceroy struck me. There was an interesting shot of an interacial cricket team (in Bombay me thinks). Every player seemed to take extra care in grooming themselves and their handle bar mustaches. Such a dustbin of history (although we briefly revived the mustache in the seventies, most notabley with Oakland Athletics Relief picture, Rollie Fingers) The ministrial quality of it! While idling away at work later that week, drawing cartoons, that quality appeared on the page. It was very similar to my previous drawings of African Americans--more exactly, imitations of racial imitations of African Americans. So the idea occurred to put together a huge series of cartoon drawings (no gifted visual artist is writing these words, so only flirt with your breath) using imperialism as the grist. To juxtapose that with historical and colonial and post colonial liteary readings might bear interesting fruit (and hopefully serve no educational or moral purpose). Stay tuned.
To a very high degree that is what the notion of Empire has become: a very quaint cartoon that has no relationship, in the minds of most people, to contemporary life . The cartoonization however goes back , at least, to the 19th and early 20th century in the vast array of children´s literature from the UK which depicted quasi colonial personnel as merely some folksy or wise fellow assisting or playfully antagonising the protagonist. In every day society and popular culture, the word ¨empire¨is used as hyperbole or another kind of figure of speech: ¨the New England Patriots Empire¨ (dynasty), the ¨Hannah Montana Empire¨ or the American Empire...woops. Well, if you look the word up in the dictionary that last example is no figure of speech. Does it matter? For all intents and purposes, it does not matter to most. But I digress.
Flores y Tikal
Jessica´s second cousin of 24 years, Letia has grown extremely attached to Jessica. Being a young single mother whose social life appears to be revolving around her larger family, she had shown an eagerness to connect. Interestingly, even as she shown herself to take more of an interest in Jess than in me, Jessica was trying to get me to fall in love with her. It seems this more of a desire on her part to get me to be in a serious relationship with another woman than anything else. It was also easy for the two women to bond, not just because Letia was the only one who knew a lot of English, but because Jessica is always an extremely amiable person--unless you´re trying to make well laid advance plans. During our trip to downtown Guate they held hands which took time even for Jessica to get used to. When we headed out the door with Telma to the bus station, Letia emphasized to take care of my fearless friend.
Contrary to what was advised from my school, Telma suggested that we take the night bus to flores. The 8 and a half hour ride from Guate was long and comfy, about 20 persons to a most modern bus that holds 50. It almost broke down once, was stopped by the El Peten (the department, or state in which Flores and Tikal reside) security. The imagination really took flight. An attempt was made to create extended scenerios based on what little was seen in the stores and residencies along the highway.
At 31 years my first hostel experience. Good. There was definitely the sense of acclamation for some of the youthful things missed out on at an earlier time. The Hostel in Flores, ¨Los Amigos¨ had about 5-7 ¨dormitories¨, had excellent food, lots of comfortable seating, 3 lazy-assed dogs (something about this country that takes a plethora of fight from all dogs) and aside from the restaurant employees, a ton of foreigners.
After a wonderful day of walking through the shops, swimming in the lake and making conversation with un conductor de una lancha, Jessica and my person took ourselves to the cafe in Los Amigos and made friends with fellow travelers. Two from L.A. en Los Estados Unidos and a lot of Israelis.
Interestingly, most all of the Israelis were travelling individually and had only met each other or met up in Xela, clear on the other, southwest end of the country. We had a very good time getting to know them. But, even in my sworn abstaining from the consumption of non Latin American news, A curiosity crawled out of my speaking apparatus about their thoughts on the recent Israeli invasion of Gaza. It made them feel uncomfortable. One of them was quick to respond. ¨No one likes war¨, he said, possibly suggesting that he thought the invasion was necessary.
Later on at the cafe, all of us were extremely tired. Jessica, wanting to know very elementary basic things about the conflict, probed the only Israeli Girl in the group. She had just got off her obligatory 2 year stint in the army and has a boyfriend serving inside Gaza with the Israeli equivelant of the Navy Seals--the real dangerous stuff. It was obvious by her answers to Jessica´s questions that she felt a need to defend Israel even as she sounded a little unsure about the whole history. The decision was made to remove myself from the conversation. They know more about their own history than any of us. As much as my opinion of the Israel government is staunch (that they are committing appalling and in fact illegal acts by occupying West Bank, East Jeuruselum, slaughtering innocents, allowing Israeli settlers to remove indigenous Palestians off their lands, and submitting them to second class citizenship in those occupied territories;that to end the conflict with Hamas they should be serious about going back to their pre´1967 borders), not a best argument would not have been possible since it requires the revisiting of so many facts dating back to 1967 if not earlier.
So we managed to have good realtions. All of them were extremely smart, funny and courteous. Outside of that group we met even more Israelis. There´s a certain hostel that is popular with them in Xela. Even their flag is flying there. Guatemala appears to have embraced them. Interestingly enough the Israeli government sold lots of war toys to Guatemala´s military dictatorship through out the 80s.
Perhaps there is too much soggy democratic idealism inside of me to dwell on the historical irony; maybe it should not be assumed that the every youth traveling from another country feels any significant connection (not just responsibility) for what his or her government does.
Tikal was wonderful. One certainly could not smell the blood and fire behind the pyramids. Another Israeli connection entered when talking about the construction of the pyramids made of Limestone, the main material used in Israel. Props must be given to the tour guide. he was extremely informative and did not hesitate to combat the silly myths that lie in peoples heads about the Mayan empire. So many actual Mayan myths, it should be noted share so much in common with those from all over the ancient world (e.g. The gods appearing as white people, or a white person with a beard coming in on a boat). You begin to think in more anthropological rather that anthrotainment terms. But above all else there is the power of the architecture.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Two Poems
THE HOMUNCULUS MEANS TO SAY,(AMIDST A CASUAL CONVERSATION) "...DO YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?"
Weakest link shortest passage, my body the heterodox metric
As if that old victory against the flesh that
the message heads on the corner exude
With the abundant distraction of belief,
forgetting its own desire of itself
Then, one vein could throb for us in our searching
Pangs, fits and starts through the brush that stroked our ugliness
And confession, disclosing the blood in the image of ourselves
Or images that “alone” strengthens
This is an atheist's claim
Alone bequeathed all possible ontologies to me
Alone made such anxious wonder
In our presence we were waiting for its transparency,
We were naming.
In its death you come in a mother-mask. Alone dies
“Alone is dead”, they start to declare
Wearily, the body adjusts to life--
You’ll begin to see green nautical marbles in my sockets”
Half blind, finding the way to the mineral kingdom: one thought turns you out:
our marriage to the same empty spaces,
regarding one to another as of the same yoke
Knowing I’s (way too much).
Sometimes there is no other compass
PUBERTY RITUAL IN THE AGE OF GLOBAL WARMING
During the hundred and thirty urologists performing a procedure,
thousands of men lit a gelatinous form of collagen,
where the hem meets significant partial alleviation of seven continents,
till results were logged, using the same etch others had been lucky to scan,
resulting in impotence.
I went to New York long after I imagined myself having adapted to the practical inconveniences of the condition.
I got over being called a raisin face and even produced a marketing campaign
The allegorical “hard of peeing” or “the peeing impaired” sold well
Weakest link shortest passage, my body the heterodox metric
As if that old victory against the flesh that
the message heads on the corner exude
With the abundant distraction of belief,
forgetting its own desire of itself
Then, one vein could throb for us in our searching
Pangs, fits and starts through the brush that stroked our ugliness
And confession, disclosing the blood in the image of ourselves
Or images that “alone” strengthens
This is an atheist's claim
Alone bequeathed all possible ontologies to me
Alone made such anxious wonder
In our presence we were waiting for its transparency,
We were naming.
In its death you come in a mother-mask. Alone dies
“Alone is dead”, they start to declare
Wearily, the body adjusts to life--
You’ll begin to see green nautical marbles in my sockets”
Half blind, finding the way to the mineral kingdom: one thought turns you out:
our marriage to the same empty spaces,
regarding one to another as of the same yoke
Knowing I’s (way too much).
Sometimes there is no other compass
PUBERTY RITUAL IN THE AGE OF GLOBAL WARMING
During the hundred and thirty urologists performing a procedure,
thousands of men lit a gelatinous form of collagen,
where the hem meets significant partial alleviation of seven continents,
till results were logged, using the same etch others had been lucky to scan,
resulting in impotence.
I went to New York long after I imagined myself having adapted to the practical inconveniences of the condition.
I got over being called a raisin face and even produced a marketing campaign
The allegorical “hard of peeing” or “the peeing impaired” sold well
No pimping mercy here
the eyes saw the first Ämerican¨ tourist today at the Guate Museo de Arte Moderno. He started talking to me in Spanish which sort of stroked my ego. He wanted my opinion on the painting that you see to the right. We were interpeting it together. the image of the lady pointing didn´t make sense to him him. he was not offended necessarily, but he said that the painting must not be very Catholic. He said it in such way that sounded like he wasn´t catholic and the thought occurred that perhaps he was of the Evangelicals (they claim about 40% of the country now)the notion of abortion was not too far from the embodied mind. After thinking about an earlier breakfast conversation with jessica´s aunt and grandma, in which my atheism was made known to them (they asked for my afiliation), an eagerness to contradict this gentleman´s interpretation kicked the Spanish tongue into gear¨: ¨No Señor. Mi Amiga quien es muy Catolica me dijo que la pintura es muy bonita!¨
After getting a verbal testimony from Telma straight to the man we left it at that. Gorgeous symbolism if you ask me. A symbol within a symbol: the birth is the crucifixion and the suffering pity the saviour. My Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms and Literary Theory is at hand but a description of this kind of symbolism was not found. If anyone has a word for, be it belonging to the isms, ymns, lets, oches or anything--lemmeknow
New years Eve, pictures without the story (it was great too)
This is Brenda, Jessica´s cousin. She is too young for me.
This is my traveling companion, Jessica Molina. She is more dangerous (and nerve wrecking) than she looks.
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