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.

These are a few of my favorite things

-I love picking through my beans before soaking them.  I love the sound they make against the blue bowl I put them in, and I love the feeling of running my fingers through their smooth shells.  Each little pebble, dirt clump, or piece of grass I find and remove is a small victory.

-I love just barely beating the rain home, then snuggling up in my hammock with a book and a hot mug of tea while the rain pours down on my tin roof. 

-I love understanding what people are saying about me in Q'eqchi' and then giving them that look that says "I totally just understood what you said, dude."  And then the Q'eqchi' laughter that ensues.

-I love those few moments when I'm in front of a classroom of kids and I can see that something just totally clicked.  Something I did or said worked and I got through to them.

-I love that even after a year, the Q'eqchi' women still totally kick my ass on the hike up to Tzibal.  This is despite the fact that they are 65 years old, carrying 15 pounds of vegetables on their heads, a baby on their back, and are wearing flimsy rubber sandals, while I carry nothing and have on hiking boots.

3 days in the life

Recently I listened to a Volunteer Voices podcast called "A Typical Day," in which Kimberly Ross details a typical day in her life as an English-teaching volunteer in Guinea, West Africa.  I really enjoyed hearing about her life and routine and comparing it to my own experience here.  So I wanted to do my own "typical day," but thought that one day didn't quite paint the picture.  A week, however, is too long.  So here you have it, three days in the life.  Maybe somebody out there will find it interesting.

Tuesday
I wake up sans alarm clock around 6:30am.  I get up and put on a pot of water to boil for my oatmeal and coffee.  I make my bed and check my email.  I prepare my breakfast and bring in the clean dishes from the day before.  Over breakfast, I look over my lesson plans for my English class and finish grading last week's quizzes.  I finish, get dressed, then head down to the pila to brush my teeth and wash my face.  I return and get my school bag together.  I take the long way to the school so I can pass by Edgar's shop and pay him 2 quetzales to print off the lyrics I downloaded and translated for my kids.  I also pass by the librería where I make copies for each student.  At 9am I start my English class with the Sexto Primario kids.  They are my favorite class.  We review last week's lesson, and then I give them their new vocab words, which they copy into their notebooks from the board.  Then I hook up my iPod to the portable speakers I brought with me and play "Hello Goodbye" by The Beatles.  I pass out the lyrics in English and Spanish.  We listen four times, and the kids still want to hear it a fifth.  I play it again, and they sing along in broken English.  I wrap up class and leave when Seño Bertha returns from her break.  By 10:30am I'm back at home where I do some dishes and wash a few shirts to hang out in the sun.  I review my afternoon lesson plans and get in my hammock and read for a while.  Around 12:30 I cross the road and buy two tayuyos from Liliana's mother.  I bring them home and eat them with an avocado.  After lunch I write a few emails then repack my school costal and head back to the Institute where I give a charla to Primero A on "Economía para el éxito".  After my class I stop my Nelyda's office and say hi, and also stop by the Intecap cooking class, where they're making chinese-style orange chicken.  I finally head home, where I change into my comfy clothes and do a Rodney Yee yoga video that I play on my Macbook.  It starts raining so I bring in my laundry and dishes.  After yoga I take a cold shower and around 7pm heat up a small pot of the green-bean lentil stew I made on Sunday.  I'll be eating this each night for dinner until Sunday, when I'll make another huge pot of something (probably black beans and rice) to last me through the next week.  After dinner I get in bed with my book and a mug of decaf chai, and read until I fall asleep. 

Wednesday
I wake up around 7am, and it's rainy.  I make coffee and change, and make a list of what I need to buy at the market.  Around 8:30am I head over to the market and buy a pound of black beans, two pounds of apples, twelve bananas, ten eggs, and three fresh tayuyos.  I bring my purchases home, where I wash the apples and eggs in the pila.  I pick through my beans as well, and put them aside until the weekend.  Dilan, Olga's four-year old son, comes up and wants to color.  I give him crayons and his Transformers coloring book (that my mom brought from the States) and help him color a picture of a Transformer.  Dilan goes home, I play guitar for a bit, then read in my hammock for a while before I fall asleep for a nice rainy-day nap.  I wake up a little after noon, heat up a tayuyo, pack my bag, and head to the school in the rain for my 1pm charla.  Three students show up around 1:05.  The other twenty or so students don't bother showing up until after 1:30.  Because of the rain, they say.  Seño Bertha shows up to teach her 1:30 class.  I briefly lecture the class for not showing up on time, remind them of class tomorrow, and leave.  I mosey over to the kitchen where the Intecap teacher is waiting to start the afternoon cooking class (Intecap is a Guatemalan NGO that provides free educational opportunities for people in rural areas. Following my teacher friends' suggestion, I signed up for the Wednesday afternoon pastry class).  I know that the other students won't show until 2:30, so I go in to keep the teacher company until then.  We chat about her son who went to live in Pennsylvania for a few years before getting deported.  I also translate my black bean brownie recipe for her.  The other women students show up around 2:45, and we get to cooking that day's lesson: braided bread filled with cheese and meat.  As we're kneading our dough, the women all poke fun at me for forgetting to take off my rings.  As our bread is baking, the teacher dictates the recipe so that we can all copy it down in our notebooks.  I translate to myself as she dictates and write the recipe down in English.  When we're done copying, the women all gather around my notebook, as usual, to scrutinize my English version of the recipe.  Much giggling ensues.  Our bread is finished and we cut it, put it in plastic bags, then walk around town selling it to make back the money the teacher spent on the ingredients.  Around 6pm I walk home with one of the other women from the cooking class.  I heat up some lentils, and check my email/facebook/blogger.  After doing some dishes, I'm in bed with my tea and an episode of How I Met Your Mother that I have saved on my external hard-drive.

Thursday
I wake up a little before 7am.  I boil water for my coffee and Dilan shows up.  I give him a banana and his coloring book/crayons and go and take a cold shower.  Over coffee I check my email and get my bag ready.  A little after 8am Dilan and I leave my house and I hike up to Tzibal for the "8:00" meeting with the women.  I arrive in Tzibal, drenched in sweat, around 8:45, and am the first one there.  The women saw me coming up the main road, so within ten minutes about twenty women have gathered with me at the school.  I have the construction worker explain the bottle-wall process to the women in Q'eqchi', and they get to work putting in the bottle walls.  I take photos and help some of the women sort out which bottles still need to be stuffed with trash.  Around 10:45 snack arrives and we all stop our work to drink our steaming-hot atol.  Estela gifts me a shupito, a tamale filled with whole black beans.  I eat it, and she gives me another.  I stow this one in my bag and finish my atol.  Estela and I chat about my recent family visit.  She also proposes an idea she had about buying solar panels for the houses in the village.  I tell her that's it a good idea, but that we need to take it one project at a time.  I take a few more photos, talk briefly with Seño Susana, say my goodbyes to the women, and head back down the mountain to Campur.  I stop briefly at my house around 11:45 to drop off my camera and pick up my schoolbag.  I stop at the pila and splash cool water on my face.  It's especially hot today.  As I leave my house again I'm stopped by Liliana's mother who gifts me two shupitos.  It must be shupito day or something.  I thank her and stow them in my bag before continuing on my way.  I walk through the center, stopping at Edgar's to print off the exam I'll be giving today at Birmania.  He's eating lunch so I wait 15 minutes before he gets around to printing it off.  I also stop and have copies made.  I walk the 20-minute hike to Birmania quickly and get there around 1:15, where the other professor is waiting for me.  I give my English/Youth Development exam to the Segundo class first, then the Primero class.  I watch them like hawks and catch quite a few students cheating.  I mark their exams and tell them that I'm going to deduct points.  They look so ashamed.  After the last of the Primero students finish their exams I pack up and head out, despediring the other professor on my way.  I get home around 3, eat an apple and one of the shupitos from my bag.  I take a short nap in my hammock.  Around 5:30 I repack my bag, double-check my lesson plan, and head to the local school for my 6pm charla.  Upon getting downstairs, however, it begins to downpour.  Olga, the store owner, tells me, in more or less words, that I'm not going anywhere in the heavy rain.  So instead I sit with her in her store and we eat frozen choco-bananas and sour mandarines while chatting about boys and the weather, throwing our green mandarine peels into the muddy river that is flowing where the road normally is.  I'll make up the charla next week.  A little after 7 I head upstairs and Olga closes up shop.  Too full from our snacks, I get into bed and plan for the next day.