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.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
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.
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