Cansada-Gal

My brain is dead. I am boring. Don’t read this entry unless you want to fall face-down on your keyboard, dead-asleep.

We’re supposed to change instructors each week but I’ve asked permission to hog Silvia next week too. She’s an excellent teacher, fun to hang out with and knowledgeable about local culture and history. It’s a pretty amazing arrangement, really: to have all this one-on-one time with such a multifaceted resource.

Today my weekend finally started to emerge from the mist of possibilities. Tomorrow I’m going to hike up to Pacaya (an active volcano nearby) and at 4:00 a.m. the following day (Saturday) am heading for a night to Tikal, a giant Maya ruin way up north. Normal tourist fare, but I’m looking forward to it all.

This afternoon Silvia and I took a chicken bus over to San Antonio twenty minutes from here, famed for the high-quality hand-woven stuff its women make. I wanted to go look for presents for Anna and Teej. Here’s what I bought, held by the creators.

The woman on the right is wearing a huipil that had me mesmerized, decorated with symbols from the Maya calendar instead of the usual flowers, butterflies and quetzals. I asked if she had another like it. No, but she eagerly offered to sell me hers off her back. Later I’ll probably kick myself for not taking her up on the offer. It was an amazing work of art.

Here’s the chicken bus we took home, which was filthy, belched foul black smoke, and blasted Latin music the whole way home. I loved it.

At one point Silvia and I sat toward the front of the bus where, in the driver’s rearview mirror, I caught an accidental glimpse of the strangest sight: in a dense ocean of dark-haired, dark-skinned, stocky people, there was my silly-looking self poking way up like a fireplace matchstick.

We drove past squares of coffee fields on the side of the mountain, so steep they looked like a patchwork quilt tossed over the back of a chair. In a gully down by a stream, women were scrubbing clothes in rows of 200-year-old stone tubs. I wonder how long an American would have to live in Guatemala before the daily life of locals became invisible to them. I can’t imagine that happening, since our lives are so stunningly different.

After Silvia headed home I met Maria for dinner and had my first Pepií¡n of the trip. We made plans to go to Santiago de Atitlí¡n next weekend, and to stay at the place where I was almost killed by Santa Claus two years ago.

I am exhausted. I should take a rest day, but there’s too much I want to do. Next week will be slower. I depart now — to study, perchance to remember.

Next Central America entry >>

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