September gone, October underway

It's Wednesday, which means it's been five days since the inauguration of the Tzibal eco escuela/bottle school.  It's strange being done, and having so much more time on my hands while I wait for the next project to start.  September was another whirlwind of a month here.  The inauguration was originally scheduled for the 30th, but due to construction delays and whatnot, we had to push it until the following Friday.  Meanwhile Jareau, my former sitemate, flew out for the 30th and despite the inauguration being pushed, spent a lovely 4-day visit here in Campur during which he cooked me perhaps one of the top tastiest meals I've had during my PC service here--fresh Tilapia (we hiked to a nearby finca and bought it that day...as we paid the guy the fish were literally still moving in the bag) pan-fried with a peanut-butter sauce served with rice, stewed veggies, and avocado.  It was so rich and yummy, and made me miss having such an adventurous culinary artist as a sitemate.  Jareau went on his way, and the week leading up to the rescheduled inauguration was expected madness.  But in the typical Guatemalan fashion, the inauguration seemed to get thrown together just in time, and the ceremony and ribbon-cutting were quite successful.  I've never felt so proud of a community, and been so incredibly flattered by their lovely words and gestures of thanks to me and those others who made the project happen.  It will be such an amazing thing to see the students of Tzibal learning in these rooms when classes resume in January--to say they deserve it just doesn't quite cut it.  A full photo story of the bottle school can be found here.

So now it's October, and here I sit on another 'Standfast' which PC Guate declared this morning due to a tropical depression currently passing over Guatemala.  Apart from a few ominous clouds and the cumpulsory night rainstorms, things are normal as pie here in the Alta Verapaz--so family, friends: no need to worry.  I do hope that all my volunteer friends out in the highlands are doing okay--I remember when Agatha passed through here over a year ago--I've never experienced so much rain in my life.  Lord knows what the roads/pueblos will look like after this one.  Mudslides galore and who knows what else...sometime it really does seem that Guatemala can never catch a break. 

In other news, the volunteers from Operation Groundswell who came out in July to help with the bottle school have generously agreed to fund the construction of a sports field in Tzibal.  During their visit they noted that the village kids don't have a formal sports field, just a few rocky/muddy clearings where they play during recess or after school hours.  So they are doing an amazing thing--writing a grant to fund the construction of a sports field/community meeting space, which we hope to begin construction on within the next few months.  The sports field, designed by the volunteer leader's inventive architect father, will incorporate a lightweight steel-cable roof design that will double as a water collection system complete with two water cisterns and community pilas.  I couldn't be more excited to see the Tzibal community receive yet another amazing project, and to continue working with and corresponding with the OG folks.  They have continued to impress me with their lasting dedication to the Tzibal community.  More on this project coming soon!

Erick

From the left: Erick, me, and Erick's sister Susana

(Note: This is a slightly overdue 'Part II' to this previous entry.)

Erick Rodolfo Cuz.  Four years ago, Erick arrived to Campur and began working as a teacher at the Tzibal school.  Shortly thereafter, he was promoted to School Director and began working with Peace Corps to develop sustainable projects in the community.

Erick is one of the few people I've known and worked with here in Guatemala that continues to surprise and impress me.  His dedication to his job is beyond anything I've seen at my other schools, and his dedication to the Tzibal community at large, despite the fact that he doesn't live there, is incredibly inspiring.

As construction of the bottle school began, Erick applied for and thankfully received liberation from his directorial duties so that he would be able to spend all of his time devoted to the bottle project.  And all of his time he did indeed spend.  In these past few months, there were often times in which Erick worked 11, 12, 13-hour days, either up in Tzibal overseeing the construction, traveling between Campur and the Municipality to solicit and schedule transport of construction materials, or helping me facilitate women's group activities.  Without Erick's work and devotion to the project, I can honestly say that we wouldn't have been able to pull it off.  He is one of those people that is able to make things happen, get things moving, and won't rest until he's finished what he's started.

Aside from this, Erick is the one and only male counterpart who I work with that doesn't make me feel like, well, a woman.  Erick treats me as an equal, and has never said or done anything remotely unprofessional.  Machismo just doesn't seem to factor into our relationship, and it makes working with him easy.  He takes me seriously, and he gets why I'm here and what Peace Corps is all about.  I rarely have to explain myself to Erick.  He just gets it.  A few months ago, for example, Erick had stopped by my house to drop off his spending report for the school.  I mentioned that the following day I was going to go into Carcha to purchase sand for the women's group pila project.  The women and I had worked out a deal with a driver to go pick up the sand from the mine in San Cristobal and transport it the 3+ hours to Tzibal for Q1200.  Erick immediately got on the phone with the municipality, talked to a buddy of his, and within minutes had it worked out that the muni would transport the sand for free the following day, along with the sand he needed for the school.  He made the trip to Carcha the following day, and by evening we had our sand, for a much better price of Q200.  He did all this without me even asking for help, and despite the fact that the pila project has nothing to do with the school (or his job).

Also?  Erick is 24 years old.  At twenty-four he runs a primary school, has spearheaded a half a dozen community projects in Tzibal (including a food security initiative, the Healthy Schools Peace Corps program, a reforestation effort, and of course, an eco-escuela), and now, built a school.  He earns no extra money, credit, or brownie points for these things--so much so that I've caught myself (horribly) questioning his motives.  The bottom line, though, is that he does it because he truly cares about development work.  He's even put off going to college (where he wants to earn a degree in environmental solutions) to stay working in Tzibal where he knows they need him and his leadership.  He once said to me, "I just don't understand why so many people from around here leave to go illegally to the United States. Sure, you can make more money there and send it back, but I think it's more important that we stay here and work to make our communities and our country a place where we can be successful and happy without leaving.  Sure, Guatemala has its problems, but I have enough to be happy here.  We just need to work on making the communities better."  And work he does.  At times he's stubborn, and at times I've had to tell him to cool down, and take a day off.  In terms of Peace Corps counterparts, however, this is best case scenario.  He's what the Guatemalans call "pilas"--somebody who's with it and knows how to get down to work.  And pilas he is.

My best friend is a four year old.

This is Dilan, my best friend in Campur.  He's the four-year old son of my friend Olga who works at the small libreria I live above.  He loves my homemade granola, mandarines, and is frequently seen wearing shirts two sizes too small and miniature orange Crocs.  While his mother works her long daily shifts to support Dilan and his older brother (Olga has been a single mother ever since Dilan's father was tragically shot and killed in the municipality over a year ago), Dilan had gotten into the habit of hanging out with me.  At first he drove me crazy, just barging in at every moment, getting into everything in my house, asking a million questions a minute (What's this for? How much did it cost? What's this called? etc.), but after a while I started getting used to his frequent visits.  I got into the habit of keeping a few coloring books and boxes of crayons on hand, and gave him his own toy box to keep his things in while he is away.  We've kind of reached this comfort in our friendship, and he seems to understand that while I'm working, I can't play.  As I write this I'm swinging in my hammock with Dilan underneath, coloring a page out of his Transformers coloring book and singing himself a little song (I haven't yet been able to grasp the jist of the lyrics but the tune is quite catchy).

Our friendship is simple, but all the best friendships are.  I know his favorite snack is orange wedges with salt rubbed on them, and he knows that if my door is closed, I need my alone time and he should come back later.  I'm always learning things from him...words I didn't know, that oranges do taste amazing with a bit of salt rubbed on them...and hopefully he's learning from me, too.  And on my bad days, he knows just how to cheer me up.  I mean, it's not hard to do when you are an adorable 4-year old wearing a belly shirt.

Every last drop

Getting ready to sign the Acta

To say that life lately has been a whirlwind would be a gross understatement.  Maybe it has to do with the school year winding down, maybe it's because Peace Corps hasn't pulled me out of site lately for another worthless three-day workshop, or maybe it has nothing to do with anything at all--but for once in my service I feel like I'm on some kind of roll--things are moving, and happening, and being planned like never before.  And I am exhausted.  I'm so exhausted, in fact, that my blog has gone untended to, my laundry has piled up to a point where I've been alternating the same two skirts for the past two weeks (what is it about long skirts that they never seem to get smelly like pants do?), and my diet has boiled down to coffee, granola bars, and beans.  This exhaustion, however, is not necessarily the kind of exhaustion from which I want respite.  It's more of an exhilarating exhaustion, like that feeling in my legs after taking a really long walk or run.  It's an exhaustion that counts for something. 

Yesterday I had a meeting up in Tzibal with the Superintendent of the school district so that he could write an "Acta" to jump-start the process of certifying the school as a "Healthy School."  (After 4 years of working with Peace Corps volunteers, the school has adopted the necessary changes to reach this certification--the students' wash their hands before snack, brush their teeth after, have clean drinking water and clean well-kept latrines, the school itself is kept clean, etc.)  Before writing this Acta*, the Superintendent, Profe Alfonso, gave the compulsory speech in which he talked about all the hard work that the school has done, how the teachers have put in extra time and effort, and how the presence of Peace Corps has been paramount in reaching these goals.  He then said something that caught my ear--he said "Seño Hannah is here to represent Peace Corps, which has helped us a lot in the past. Like the other volunteers she's only here for a short time so we must take advantage and use her to the fullest now, while she's here.  Just like when we make orange juice, we want to squeeze every last drop out of her before she goes.  Every last drop."  All the teachers at the meeting nodded in assent, prepared to do just that--juice me into a pulpy oblivion.  Perhaps I could (or should) have taken issue with this--but I liked hearing it.  As a Peace Corps volunteer I've found there is a fine line between being used as a resource and being taken advantage of.  I've taken care to devote my time and energy to those communities, people, etc., who've made it clear that they're doing the former--that they understand that I'm a human resource to be used over two years, rather than a rich Gringa here to make some handouts, write some checks, and turn on her heels and leave.  One of my greater challenges in the beginning of my service was that nobody seemed to know how to use me--I was stuck here, in a foreign village, filled with foreign people, no schedule, no agenda, nothing.  Now, however, I'm suddenly in high demand.  People aren't afraid to ask me for help anymore.  And while sure, I have those days when I wish I could time travel back to month two, lay in my bed all day reading, and make market-day lists rather than to-do lists, most of the time I'm happy to be busy.  I'm happy to be exhausted, and I hope beyond all hopes that this roll I'm on keeps on rolling until July. 

*An Acta is a peculiar Guatemalan way of making something, usually a meeting of some sort, official and a matter of public record. The highest authority at said meeting hand-writes an unnecessarily wordy document, in the official Acta log, stating the business at hand, etc., then everybody present signs the document and/or stamps their thumbprint on it)

Full Circle

Remember this?

Today I took advantage of a lull in the rain and went for a run.  I don't know if it was the cool weather, the new mix I had blasting on my iPod, or my currently fuming frustration with my semesterly Peace Corps report, but I was really in it.  I charged up the hills I usually struggle with, dodging puddles and chuchos all the way.  As I approached the large boulder that marks my halfway-point, I got a sudden jolt of energy and bounded up to my rock, so happy to be alive and free, running in the Guatemalan campo.  Little did I know then, but a nearby family had tied up one of their pigs to the back of my rock.  So along I came, reaching my rock at full speed, grabbing on and swinging around to the side of the boulder where I usually stretch.

And the pig?  I scared the living daylights out of this poor animal.  Here came my big gringa self, bounding without warning right into his little off-road territory.  I'm not sure if pigs can normally jump, but this pig leapt back in fright, and immediately sprinted away from me, seemingly forgetting his tethered condition.  As Pig's rope-leash caught he ricocheted back towards me, squealing horribly all the way.  Meanwhile I just stood there, frozen is disbelief, panting from my uphill sprint, watching this poor poor pig burrow his little hooves into the muddy ground in his futile attempt at escape.  As I clicked my iPod off I realized that two children across the road had seen the whole thing, and were delighted with the situation.  I immediately lost it, and doubled over laughing, as the pig's energy quickly depleted along with his unavailing struggle.  I crossed the road to give Pig some space, regained my composure, and started my return run, highly amused with myself.

Fourteen months later, and it's me scaring the crap out of the Guatemalan pig.   If that's not karma, I don't know what is.

Elections, evacuations, and cross-dressing Mayans

The standfast/evacuation was officially lifted Tuesday morning, so I said my goodbyes to my wonderful Zaragoza hosts and headed back to site.  I wasn't happy about being pulled out of site (again), but I've gotten to the point where I know that complaining will get me nowhere.  Sure enough, no major violence or unrest broke out in Campur (nor our municipality, San Pedro Carcha), and life went on as usual.  It's a funny thing in Guatemalan culture--there's often so much build-up, so much planning and talk--that once whatever it is happens and is over with, I'm always surprised at how quickly everything goes right back to normal.  It's like how I remember Christmas as a child.  So many months of writing letters to Santa, seeing lights on the houses, singing songs, wearing red, imagining what presents I would be getting--that come the day after Christmas, when all the wrapping paper had been bagged, the presents opened and set aside, the turkey eaten, the relatives gone, I couldn't help but feel utter disappointment that it was all over, just like that.  It's the same here--schools will strike for two months, political candidates will campaign for half a year, town leaders will meet for a month to plan la Feria--and then, one day, it's all over--it's like it never even happened.  So much of Guatemalan culture revolves around pure ceremony, that I find myself expecting a "Now things will go back to normal" ceremony.  But alas, the elections happened, a President was not elected, and things went immediately back to normal.  Just long enough, that is, to go right back up in arms over Independence Day. 

Crowning the winners. Don't they looked thrilled?

If there is ever a ceremony to beat all ceremonies, it's Guatemalan independence day.  One day (September 15th) turns into 10 days of contests, beauty pageants, parades, fireworks, celebrations, and, of course, tradition.  While I missed most of the build-up this year due to the election-evacuation, I couldn't miss the Tzibal festivities which were held on the night of the 14th (to avoid missing the big celebration that happens in Campur on the 15th).  I was the honorary guest and photographer, and arrived early to help the primary students dress in their traditional costumes for the beauty pageant.  The pageant was a typically long and painfully overdrawn event, but two winners were chosen, who I had the honor of "sashing" as the queens (no crowns, to my dismay).  I remember thinking, as I sat at the judges/honorary invitees table, how Guatemalan events like these beauty pageants make me think of how a child would put on a beauty pageant, if asked.  I mean no disrespect to Guatemalans--this is the way they are, and have been, for years and years.  This is all they know.  But I couldn't help but think back to my babysitting days, when my kids would put on these painfully long and unrehearsed shows for me--there was never any purpose to these shows--they were showy for showiness' sake.  I can remember myself as a child and how I spent hours and hours on tasks with invented importance--lining all my toys up in a row on the windowsill, coloring in my coloring books just so, matching my socks to my shirts--it's these fickle habits that Guatemalans never seem to outgrow.  What I now would deem as silly, time-wasting formalities remain a central part of Guatemalan culture.  An unrehearsed beauty pageant that lasts four hours is how it's done.  So I sit, smile, and do everything in my power to keep from sitting there thinking how I could put on a better beauty pageant in a half hour (but let's be honest, I wouldn't even put on the beauty pageant in the first place). 

Laughing with my costumed skit partners.

The highlight of the night, however, came after I crowned the Señorita Reinas.  Profe Erick gave me and the women's group a slot in the "program" to put on some sort of group performance.  My original idea was to teach the women the Electric Slide and perform it in front of the community.  When we met to rehearse, though, they claimed the dance was too hard for them, and decided that we should do a skit instead.  The skit, in Q'eqchi', revolved around a story of courtship.  I acted the part of the single daughter of a family who is paid a visit by another family who would like to marry me with their son.  The skit was way too long (and made me flash back to skits my sister and I would perform as kids), but again, I kept my mouth shut except to say my two lines.  Come show-night, while I sat up at the judges' table ready to take the stage, I was surprised to see that most of the women were missing from the audience.  Sure enough, this skit wasn't so much a skit as a big joke on me--as the women filed in to perform, half of them were cross-dressed as their husbands!  One thing about indigenous Mayan women is that you never, ever see them wearing anything but their traditional dress.  I remember back in the beginning of my service my indigenous friend Olga came over late at night to drop off something.  She was wearing her laundry washing clothes--cut off jean shorts and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt--and it was like seeing a dog in a suit and tie walk on two feet.  When you've only seen a person in one style of clothing day after day, it's surprisingly jarring to see them in anything else.  So when the women filed in, not only in Western clothes, but MALE Western clothes, I lost it.  I managed to choke out my line, and the community LOVED the skit--we were the comic hit of the night.  A gringa in indigenous dress acting alongside cross-dressed Mayan women.  Go figure.

Stormy weather

I'm drafting this post by candlelight.  Now there's some irony.

I've had a bit of blogger's block this week.  Will update soon.