Rîo Negro: Being there

 

The boat ride down the river, which is also called Río Negro, was almost like a journey to the land before time, or to a land before human habitation. I realize that this is a highly culturally and historically specific observation. I can't remember whether it was in the work of Carolyn Merchant or another scholar of environmental history who argued that what the English settlers viewed as "wilderness" when they landed in New England, was actually the result of thousands of years of Native habitation and, in many instances, deliberate cultivation. And so, with my critical thinking brain activated, I realize that the landscapes on both sides of the river, as wild, rugged, and uninhabited as they mostly seemed, undoubtedly bore the signs of thousands of years of settlement by Maya Achi people. And the course of the river itself had changed significantly since the construction of the Chixoy Dam, which had produced the displacement of most of the inhabitants of Río Negro, the massacres of over 400 people. 

The river was surrounded by mountains and cliffs, thickly covered with trees and other vegetation. It was easy to see that the river was well below its normal level -- that is, what has passed for normal in the four decades since the dam was constructed. There were occasionally flat areas close to water level, temporary pastures, including a few where I saw animals (a horse in one location, a lone cow in another and in an alcove off to one side where there was a more extensive pasture area, several cows). Sorry, I have no photos of the animals; you'll have to take my word.

There were a very small number of homesteads visible from the river (maybe 3, over the course of 13 kilometers -- that's what Don Julián told me was the distance). We saw a few boats moored along the river, and perhaps 4 other boats with people in them. It reminded me of a long-ago kayak trip in the Dordogne region of France,  where the famous Lascaux and Les Eyzies caves are located. Although the topography was not very similar, the sense of passing through a landscape that looked, to the untutored eye, like it had changed little in the last few millennia, was similar. 

Don Julián, the boatman, had lived much of his life in this river valley (he told me a lot of his personal biography later) and clearly knew the river intimately. After we had moved far enough from the landing area so that the water was deep enough to turn on the motor, it provided a constant, or almost constant, hum. I sat looking ahead; Don Julián was behind me in the sterm, but we could converse as the boat was small. From time to time Don Julián cut the motor and pulled it up  when we came to an area where the water was too shallow, or there were too many grasses and reeds that would catch in the motor. and there were islands of grasses and reeds that we needed to navigate around. Without a word when I heard him pull out his paddle I grabbed mine and helped steer the boat around the danger zones.

We were on the river for about an hour and a half, perhaps a little more. I left the charging cable for my GPS watch in Zacualpa and while my phone certainly serves as a timepiece, I have to make an effort to pull it out an look at it, as opposed to just glancing down at my wrist. 

One disappointing but not entirely surprised observation was the quantity of garbage in the river - specifically, the quantity of bottles.  Soft drink, bottled water, Gatorade, and undoubtedly other beverages.  These were mostly, but not all, plastic single serving bottle, although some glass beer bottles here and there. There were entire floating islands, almost barriers, composed of bottles that had drifted together. Obviously, there is no municipal garbage collection along the river -- this sparsely populated area is poorly served by governmental institutions of all sorts. And I have no way of knowing whether most of the bottles wound up in the river because people simply tossed them from the sides of boats as they traveled up and down the river (not inconceivable -- many times on buses I've seen people open the windows and toss all kinds of trash out onto the shoulders or roadway. 

I toyed with the idea of taking a photo of the garbage but decided against it, in part to avoid creating or reproducing stereotypes of rural people in places like Guatemala, that they are somehow uniquely careless about their trash. There are larger social, economic, and political forces that are responsible for our culture of disposability, for the export to places like Guatemala of soft drinks, junk food, fast food, and other consumer items (and the culture of disposability), and for the desire to consume modernity (hence the global popularity of McDonald's -- it's not only because of how the stuff tastes, but because it represents rubbing elbows with the world of global capitalism). 

At a certain point Don Julián told me that we were getting close, and pointed out a building on the right hand side of the river, up on a hillside. That was the school, he told me. A little while later, we came upon a floating wooden dock, in front of a steep cliff, and Don Julián hopped out of the boat, admonishing me to stay and wait. First he fastened the boat, and then he stepped over a pretty wide gap between the dock and the shore and tightened the rope that tethered the dock to the shore. It was still bobbing around, but I put my bags on the dock, got off the boat, and then handed the larger bag to Don Julián and strapped myself into the backpack and the shoulder bag. I was so glad that I hadn't brought the suitcase, because no one had told me that in order to get to the Centro, one had to walk nearly half a mile up a very narrow rock, gravel, and dirt path, full of switchbacks. I was grateful that Don Julián volunteered to carry my heavier bag (and at the same time immensely guilty because I had learned that he was two years older than me). You can see the beginning of the path in the photo to your left. 

It was slow going, as the gravel and rocks were loose in places. I paused several times to give my lungs and quads a break. So I didn't feel bad about not having gone for a run in the morning.

When I got to the top (finally!) I was grateful that I wouldn't have to traverse it again with that much baggage until the day I left (which was either going to be the next day, or the day after). 

At the top, we were greeted by Cupertino, the man who was in charge of the locale and the reception of visitors. Don Julián had served in that position for a few years, and then Cupertino had assumed that role (I later learned that there was an election process, but I didn't know it at the time).

I don't have a photograph of the center -- the entrance is pretty close to the edge of the cliff. Not dangerously close, but close enough that one could not step back far enough to get a shot of the whole building. It was a two-story wooden frame building with a wraparound porch on two sides of the building. I never went up to the second floor so I don't know what is up there, but I think probably space that could be used for sleeping or meetings. There was a standard 6-foot long white folding table of the kind you would see at Lowe's or Ikea, and a couple of rubber armchairs. 

Cupertino was also a survivor of the massacre, as is his wife, Ventura, whom I met a bit later on when she brought lunch for us. A bit later on we had a long chat and he told me his life story. But first he showed me the facilities -- first room was a relatively spacious kitchen, with a gas stove and a fridge. Apologetically, he told me that the power was off -- it was a nationwide blackout, some problem with the grid, which of course I hadn't known about since I had been in transit for over three hours. I worried, of course, about charging my phone and laptop, but the power did come back on later, and I never used the fridge as I had not brought any perishable food with me.

There was a bathroom off to one side. He proudly told me that it had hot water -- but of course that was connected to the electrical grid as nearly every shower that I have seen in Guatemala has a shower head that is attached to a small apparatus that heats the water. By the time I needed a shower, it was working. Straight ahead was a library/office. One shelf full of books, some other items on tables and tucked into corners. A small hallway led to the main, large room, with several large windows, curtained with the fabric used to for cortes (the long pieces of cloth that women wrap around their midsections and fasten with a woven belt). There was a large stack of thin mattresses covered with striped ticking along the back wall, a couple of stacks of those ubiquitous plastic chairs, and a shelf with a lot of sports trophies. Cupertino explained that some of the local kids had won or placed in various tournaments. There was another folding table along one of the walls, with a chair, that I could use as a writing surface, and perpendicular to the opposite wall, a single mattress on the floor, with a pillow, sheets, blanket and towel neatly stacked at the foot. 

I arranged my bags on the table, put my food items on the kitchen counter, excused myself to use the bathroom, and then we sat down to talk, and plan out the next day and a half. Don Julián was still there, and we discussed the two major items: visiting the site of the dam, which would require Don Julián's services as boatman, and walking along the path of the massacres, up to the top of the mountain, where there was a memorial. They asked if I wanted to rest (people always seem to think that gringas need a lot of rest after traveling or any kind of exertion -- people are continually bidding me "Que descanses") but I said that I wanted to go to the dam that afternoon after lunch if it were possible, and then we could do the walk up the mountain the next day, leaving very early to beat the heat. 

That settled Don Julián went off down the path to return to him own home, about 10 or 15 minutes away by boat, for lunch, and Doña Ventura, Cupertino's wife, came bearing some pots and containers which she set down in the kitchen and then prepared our plates. It felt a little awkward to eat with Cupertino (he kept me company for lunch and dinner, which were the meals that Doña Ventura prepared for me -- I made my own breakfasts) while Doña Ventura did not join us, but I generally don't question people on their own turf about such things. I won't bore readers with details about the food other than to say that her tortillas were excellent and much to my liking -- made of yellow corn (not as common as white), relatively thick and large (there is a wide range of sizes and thicknesses of tortillas) and quite fresh and hot (another key criteria in my book). I had to stop myself from gobbling down a whole stack of them; I try to limit myself to three or at most four, depending upon the size.

Then just at the moment expected we heard the motor of Don Julián's boat, and I went down the zig-zag trails to the landing so we could set off to the Chixoy Dam (next installment).