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.