Guate-Guate-Guate

“¦That’s what cuidad-bound bus conductors shout as they careen down the street looking for passengers. Here’s what I’ve gleaned from today’s news: Eleven bus drivers and conductors have been murdered over the past three days. ílvaro Colom, in office for fewer than thirty days now, suspects it’s an attempt to destabilize his government. Others say it’s organized crime taking revenge on companies that don’t pay a protection fee. Some drivers are quitting, and riders in Guatemala City are having a harder time finding buses. I don’t notice a difference here in Antigua.

I never get tired of wandering around ruins. At least, I haven’t yet. This morning I visited Iglesia San Francisco where they’ve restored the main church (a service attended by hundreds was finishing when I arrived) but left the monastery and other structures in rubble. (Before today I’d I never seen a confessional with clear doors so you can see the confessor and the priest.)

There’s lots that’s fun to climb over and under and around.

But everything’s making me sad today. The news, the destitute people I pass on the street, the tortured Jesuses at the Iglesia and the despondent parishioners praying and crying as they kneel on the cold stone.

I miss my dog. I miss my family (today is Yo-Nenny’s 29th birthday) and friends. A symphony of circumstances made me miss Dad too. Adjacent to the church are the remains of and a shrine to Hermano Pedro de San José de Bethancourt (1625–1667), revered in Guatemala. Dad, as you know, was also a Pedro (but revered only in the US). Hermano Pedro, who dedicated his life to helping the sick, is often pictured with a cane. In his last years, so was Dad. In the Hermano Pedro museum is a Pasillo de los Milagros — hallway of miracles — with thousands of offerings of thanks to Pedro for answering prayers of healing: photos, handwritten stories, clothing, thick ponytails. There was a Photoshopped retablo: a photo of a church interior onto which the artist had done a simple computer drawing of a woman in a pew praying over a man lying in the aisle in a coffin-like bed.

It seems Hermano Pedro is particularly adept at healing lameness; there were two walls full of crutches and other walking aids, which made me miss Dad more since, as you know, it was Lou Gehrig’s disease that got him. I took a couple photos. A admonishing voice came onto the loudspeaker and said it wasn’t okay to take pictures. That made me embarrassed and sadder.

To make matters worse, according to my red-bean reading this morning, the only thing in my life that doesn’t need serious attention is my health. Well, as Mom says, “If you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.”

On the bright side, I’ve decided I want to try every kind of cookie that Doí±a Luisa’s makes. I bought a chocolate-chip-with-peanuts one, and of course another plain chocolate.

I don’t know why I’ve been agonizing so much over whether or not to travel to Lanquí­n before I leave. Last night I’d decided for sure to do it. This morning I realized it was a stupid idea. This afternoon I walked back to the far side of town to buy my round-trip shuttle ticket.

An unexpected benefit was that, had I decided not to go, I’d never have known that there were big parades all over town in celebration of Lent. Half a block from my house I passed people washing sidewalks and cleaning hearths and assembling flower tableaus on the cobblestone, “to celebrate that Jesus is coming,” as one woman told me.

By the time I got back from buying my shuttle tickets, there were vendors with cotton candy and chiclé and multicolored foam lizards on sticks. Then the procession began. First came the purple guys and the incense. On their chests, each wore a postcard of Jesus hauling a cross.

Then came the float carried by the men. It looks exceedingly heavy.

The women followed with their own float, smaller than the men’s. As they walk, they intentionally rock it from side to side. I wish I knew why.

The efficient and energetic clean-up crew was the at heels of the last marching tuba. The driver of the front-end loader gave me a thumbs-up as he passed.

Now I have to go pack for my early-morning departure tomorrow. I don’t have a place to stay there yet. I devoutly hope that’s not a problem. But only one hotel has a phone number and its rates are too high. So I’ll try not to worry on the seven- or eight-hour journey there. I hope to visit the caves and see all the bats, and play in green pools at the foot of the river that I’ve been futilely wanting to raft.

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