Back on track: getting started in Chinique

 

On Monday, July 11, I traveled to Chinique, as I've previously recounted. I arrived in the early afternoon, but I had already set up one meeting with the relative of a recent migrant -- Don Roberto, the father of Ken, of my key collaborators for this trip. Ken had given me Don Roberto's phone number before I'd left the U.S. in my hurried preparations, and I'd written to him on WhatsApp. WhatsApp is extremely popular in Guatemala; the major cell phone companies often throw in free access to WhatsApp and Facebook (also popular) when one purchases airtime, which means that people often use WhatsApp to make phone calls rather than using their limited minutes. So I shouldn't have been surprised when Don Roberto called me back instead of texting me -- while those of us privileged to have had enough education that writing comes easily find texting a good way to communicate, those who aren't so privileged (which would include about 70% of the 35+ rural indigenous population in Guatemala, where most people have had only a few years of primary school; people in their 50s or older would have had few opportunities to study as the 36-year long armed conflict would have interrupted what little and inadequate rural education there was) would prefer to call, finding texting difficult.

Don Roberto had been very eager to talk with me, and so I called him again when I'd arrived in Guatemala and he said that he would come into Chinique from the rural village of La Puerta; he assured me that he had a little Torito (little bull), which is the name of one of the brands of motor-taxis known as Tuk-tuks. When he arrived, I told him that I hadn't yet eaten lunch, and so I allowed him to choose a comedor for me. He drove me in the tuk-tuk (I could easily have walked but it would have been rude to not accept the ride) and he parked on a patch of cobblestone behind the parroquia (the parish church), which I recalled was where the fireworks took place during the patron saint feast. The comedor was one that has been there for a long time, and I think I'd eaten there once or twice before. I told him to order whatever he wanted but he had already had lunch so he just had a soft drink. The comedor had a small sign on the wall advertising pizza, but the proprietor told me it would take 45 minutes, so I nixed that idea.  I had scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onion (a safe bet and one of the few reliable options for a semi-vegetarian), and then we set off for La Puerta..

I had been to La Puerta exactly once, for the consulta comunitaria in 2012, and I hadn't remember much if anything about the trip to the village. All I remembered was the assembled residents of the community standing in neat rows in a large field that had a row of buildings on one side -- perhaps the school, or some offices of local institutions. One of the community leaders -- I think the head teacher at the school -- stood before the crowd, explained the process of the consulta, and then held the vote. Some communities used paper ballots, while others, like La Puerta, did it by a show of hands. 

So I hadn't remembered how far it was, or how steep the road. The Torito climbed and climbed, and then climbed some more, over roads that were paved in parts and dirt and rocks in others. Finally Don Roberto stopped and pointed to a house across a few fields. "That's our house", he told me, and then parked the in a small shed alongside the road. After securing his vehicle, he led me across a narrow path that went through his neighbor's fields, and then his own, and finally to the house. We entered through the back (that is the side facing away from the road) and stepped into a small courtyard where his wife was waiting. She pulled out a chair for me and I gladly accepted the seat. She spoke less Spanish than her husband, who occasionally had to translate for us. I admired the flowers and the view (the photo that accompanies this paragraph is looking out back from the house) and gave her the small present I'd brought. The women in the collective house where I'd stayed in the capital made soaps and other toiletries, and so I'd bought 10 soaps as small gifts for people. Although it is often customary for anthropologists to pay people for participating in interviews, I knew that this might be seen as offensive and so I decided upon small gifts. I thought about purchasing coffee but that is heavier and bulkier to carry around.

Don Roberto said that his son had not told him or his wife that he was leaving Guatemala. Ken had had several jobs working with NGOs and often traveled. He was not living in his parents' home at that time. He had told his parents that he was going to attend a training workshop (I think in Xela but I'd have to check the recording), and that he would not be reachable for a while. His parents accepted this (adult sons are given a fair amount of autonomy) and only learned that he was in the U.S. when he called after he had arrived. Don Roberto said that he understood why Ken had done that; he didn't want to upset his mother. He (Don Roberto) accepted what his son had done and said that he would have supported his decision if he'd known about it. 

The mother chimed in at this point (I don't remember her name so I don't have to invent a pseudonym for her) and started to cry as she spoke; it was clear that Ken's departure was still a sore spot for her, although almost exactly a year had passed.  I took some photographs and send them to him via WhatsApp while I was in his parents' home. I was trying to remember if he called or I called, but looking at this picture, it seems that his mother is talking on her phone, which means that he must have called her.

What struck me was the remoteness of the locale and the ruggedness of the terrain. I began to appreciate anew the challenges that people in rural areas face in obtaining an education. La Puerta has an elementary school, but anyone who aspires to complete the ciclo básico (the equivalent of JHS) or diversificado (the equivalent of HS) needs to travel at the very least to Chinique, which was easily 20-25 minutes away by tuk-tuk -- this is assuming that one can afford a tuk-tuk. On foot it would take at least 45 minutes going downhill, and a fair amount longer walking up. There is now a high school in Chinique -- when I was there in 2011, students had to travel to Santa Cruz del Quiché to attend a diversificado, which put it beyond the means of most. Even if one attends a public school, there are costs. In addition to school supplies and books, students would have to pay for the bus, as well as meals. The major universities offer extension programs in El Quiché, but they offer a limited range of majors (carreras or careers). Usually it's education, social work, and agronomy (or something along those lines). If one wants to study law, for example, they would have to go to a major city, which implies additional costs (housing, for example). 

We talked a little more, and then I walked around the house and looked at the surrounding mountains and fields. They gave me some oranges from one of the trees that are on their property, and then Don Roberto drove me back towards town. I asked him to leave me near the house of my friends Catarino and Sandy, with whom I'd promised to have dinner. I've already written about seeing their children, the older ones nearly all grown up. They've worked on their house, and so the kitchen is much bigger, and they have a gas stove in addition to plancha. Verónica has her own bedroom (as befitting her status as an older teenaged girl) and they've added a wicket and a little path to the front of the house from the main path onto the property (there are three houses belonging to family members along this path, and theirs is the third). 

Catarino had told me that Sandy had started to attend adult education classes. Like many indigenous women who marry relatively young and start having children, her education was interrupted. She is one of at least 10 children and her parents are agricultores (agriculturalists) -- people who work the land. That seems to be the favored term for subsistence farmers. But I was a little surprised to see a group of people standing around a computer in the outdoor covered patio of the house. The instructor at the center was explaining how to set up an email account. Catarino told me that this was an adult education class. On another occasion, Sandy told me that she was completing her high school and then wanted to go on to a university degree; I hope she is able to do so.