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.

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.

THIS IS MY WINTER BITCHES

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

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.