Or so it feels, from where I sit. So at least a couple of cranky and idiosyncratic blogs (well, the whole blogging thing is a bit of a showcase for idiosyncrasies, or at least the ones a blogger chooses to project to/perform for his/her public). Then I promise, I'll get back to some other content.
I know, I keep promising "this is for a future blog", "I'll write more about this later", and I probably haven't. One day when I have time on my hands (let's say, any evening in Chinique after 7 p.m., shall we?), I will make a list and maybe even post it, and then we (or I) can dutifully check off things or basically say, "the hell with that one."
I've been absent from the blog and from just about everything else because of an unexpectedly yucky illness (I was going to say "unexpected illness" but then thought, "well, nearly all illnesses are unexpected, unless someone you have just seen does you the courtesy of calling and saying "I just came down with...." or "The baby you were playing was just diagnosed with chicken pox" .. then you can pretty well EXPECT to get the malady to which you were exposed). And I guess there is also a certain logical expectation that I, as a foreigner living for the first really extended period outside of my country, and in what people think of as "the tropics" (with all of the baggage laden onto that term by colonizing armies, traders, clergy, tourists and novelists; one can just roll out the essential adjectives and phrases... swampy, pestilent, primitive sanitary habits, questionable food preparation, don't drink the water). Of course, I might hasten to add that "my" part of Guatemala (how's that for anthropology's colonizing gesture? There is certainly a tendency -- I do my best to avoid it -- to be very possessive and territorial about our communities [virtual or FTF] and collaborators]), the mountains of southeastern Quiché, is not very tropical. The altitude for departmental capital, Sta. Cruz del Quiché is listed as over 6,400 ft. The altitude for Chinique is listed as ranging from 3,400 to over 7,000 ft (these statistics include the entire municipio, which means the pueblo or "urban area" and all the surrounding aldeas that are part of the territory). There are tropical parts of Guatemala, undoubtedly -- I think down along the Pacific coast, where many large plantations are located -- but I'm not in one of them.
Nonetheless, I survived my first two months with nothing more dramatic than some upper-respiratory reactions to the climate (cold at night in the mountains), the altitude, the dust and the pollution (so on-and-off cough and runny nose, especially when I'd spent several hours driving in diesel fumes or an hour on unpaved mountain roads), and a few hours of gastric distress -- ironically the day before I returned to the U.S. after 6 weeks in country, so it wasn't a reaction to new and unusual food or the water; probably just accumulated stress working its way through my body and finding a convenient haven in my digestive system. The runny nose/cough/dry throat I dealt with by keeping a roll of toilet paper and a bottle of water or a thermos of hot tea in the car, and the gastric distress responded quickly to some familiar over-the-counter medications -- no name-dropping here; the internet is commercial enough; at the "entry page" for the blog there is a tab that purports to offer me advise about how to "monetarize" (monetizar) my blog, but I've never even opened it.
So, Sunday afternoon (returning from the second of two round-trips to Panajachel in as many days which occasioned my last cranky entry about teaching the women to drive), I started to feel a little "tetchy" and Monday I woke up feeling awful. I made a trip I probably shouldn't have to Chichicastenango to work with Ixmukané, realized once there that I was really sick and needed to get back to Chinique and into bed as fast as I could. It was about 11 a.m. when I finally was able to collapse onto the mattress and until Wednesday morning I only got out of bed to get more tissues, more water, and try to eat something. More about the sickness later.
So, several days lost to the world -- I went out on Wednesday for an International Women's Day Celebration in Sta. Cruz del Quiché, and it was worth whatever it might have cost my recovery, and then returned to bed. Thursday (yesterday) I was up and about a bit (but then lay down around 9 a.m. after a few relatively active hours and before I knew it, it was 2 p.m.), and today is the first day that I have really felt even, like 50%.
Oh yes, and on top of this the power was cut off from about midday Monday (don't know exactly when as I was laid out flat, not asleep, but certainly not turning lights or computers or other electrically-powered appliances off and on). The bill was delivered VERY late (Sunday, or at least that's when I saw it tucked under the outside fence, not even in an envelope), and then they cut it off the next day? I didn't realize it was off until Monday night when I groggily tried to turn on the light by the bed and the switch didn't respond. The landlord went to pay the bill in Quiché on Tuesday morning but they didn't turn power back until about 6 on Wednesday.
Went to the clinic, taking medications, drinking liquids, drinking soup, eating fruit. I promise, more details about the illness and treatments.
But I had three things in mind when I sat down today. Three things, that is, about which I wanted to blog. So I'll note them here, and let's see if I get through them today. I figured if I broke them up into three separate entries, I'd be more likely to get them done, one by one. This may or may not be the order in which they get "published". That, dear reader (sorry, I've just gotten through a bit of the Brontes, so I've got the odd 19th century affectation; I've moved on to the early 20th century, Galsworthy and Tagore, so this will stop), is hard to predict now. I'll open up a "nueva entrada" (new entry") and see what pops into mind.
(1) A recipe (and commentary about eating and buying local) - this is of course related to the illness thing since
(2) Illness and observations (admittedly not very profound) about the health care system....
(3) Some random rants -- my short (maybe not so short) list of things that I don't like about everyday life in Guatemala today. I mean, the really "big picture" things that upset me about Guatemala are ones I've mentioned and should be familiar if you've read more than an entry or two here: pervasive and endemic racism, structural inequality, intense and grinding poverty, violence, impunity, gender discrimination and violence, corruption... Maybe I've left out a few but that's a pretty good summary of the "biggies". No, today I'm going to lay out some of the quirky little things ... some of which, undoubtedly, have their roots in the same overarching factors (colonialism, "development" policies imposed from above and outside, neoliberalism, certain ideologies of "development" and "progress", and so forth).
Okay, I wasn't planning to write that much of an introduction. I will add a picture. Or try to. it just takes a REALLY long time to load photos on Blogger. Usually a good thing to do when I am washing clothes or cooking -- but I have to remember to start the process and THEN go get my hands wet and/or dirty... not vice versa....
Friday, March 11, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
To hell with capacitación, I need to teach these women how to drive
Social life in Guatemala is fairly gendered, although there seems to be somewhat more equity between men and women among the indigenous households I know in Chinique and environs than what I have read in other anthropological literature. Several married wome I know have jobs that take them to other towns, and while I don't know anything much about the division of labor inside their households, their husbands seem to have little to say about their leaving home at 6 a.m. and returning after 6 p.m., or traveling to Guatemala for a meeting. This obviously bears more analysis. But nearly none of the Maya women I know up here in Quiché drive. Actually, of the people I know in rural communities, a great number of them -- men and women -- do not know how to drive and do not own cars (as I've previously noted, a pickup is considered a carro). So they are dependent upon paying for a camioneta (literally, little truck), walking or hitching a ride. Even some of those who own cars do not drive; I know at least one returned migrant who purchased a -- you guessed it -- red Toyota pickup, but I have only seen his sons drive it.
A side note here: what defines a vehicle as a camioneta is that it is used to transport other people. A camioneta can thus be a picop whose owner runs people back and forth to rural areas. A microbus is a van or mini-van that is also used to transport people; microbuses are a bit more institutionalilzed and "professional" -- they usually have the name of the route (Los Encuentros- Chichi) stenciled on the glass, and also often are numbered. Microbuses seem to run exclusively between towns; camionetas concentrate on rural aldeas.
So, one of my functions in the organizations with which I am working (and among my friends) is as a source of rides. When I go to a meeting or activity in another town I always try to find out if anyone needs a lift.
Today, as I drove to Panajachel for the second time in two days, I was complaining mildly on the ride back that no one could drive and thus relieve me of a bit of the burden. Yesterday (March 5, Saturday) I drove from Chinique to Tapesquillo (about half an hour) then Tapesquillo to Panajachel (about 2-1/2 hours), then back to Tapesquillo, and then back home to Chinique. Today I met my folks in Chinique so it was only about two hours each way -- and I told them as we returned to the pueblo that I was not feeling well and needed ot get rest so I couldn't drive them back up into the mountains (I did give them some money for a camioneta -- not enough for the full fare but I had paid for the gas, bought part of our collective lunch, and paid for a half-hour lancha (boat) ride for all seven of us.
So, one of my passengers suggested that I teach her to drive so that she could share the effort. It hadn't occurred to me before, but I will think about it (actually, her younger brother knows how to drive but he doesn't have a license so I didn't turn the keys over to him, although the chances of us being pulled over by the highway patrol are fairly slim. I have rarely seen a highway patrol car doing anything except when there has been an accident or a few weeks ago when there was a roadblock in a community around KM 108-19 of the Panamericana, but still, I didn't want to chance anything.
There are very few flat surfaces anywhere in Quiché. All the streets in the town are very rough and narrow and although there is little traffic it always feels congested because of the tight squeezes and potholes and speed bumps. I learned how to drive in a parking lot of a company headquarters that was near my parent's home (International Salt). They had a big parking lot and my father would take me out on weekends or evenings when no one was there. No place like that in Chinique, for sure. But it's a thought -- certainly of as much practical use to me as other kinds of trainings (capacitaciones) that the various organizations offer to socias.
A side note here: what defines a vehicle as a camioneta is that it is used to transport other people. A camioneta can thus be a picop whose owner runs people back and forth to rural areas. A microbus is a van or mini-van that is also used to transport people; microbuses are a bit more institutionalilzed and "professional" -- they usually have the name of the route (Los Encuentros- Chichi) stenciled on the glass, and also often are numbered. Microbuses seem to run exclusively between towns; camionetas concentrate on rural aldeas.
So, one of my functions in the organizations with which I am working (and among my friends) is as a source of rides. When I go to a meeting or activity in another town I always try to find out if anyone needs a lift.
Today, as I drove to Panajachel for the second time in two days, I was complaining mildly on the ride back that no one could drive and thus relieve me of a bit of the burden. Yesterday (March 5, Saturday) I drove from Chinique to Tapesquillo (about half an hour) then Tapesquillo to Panajachel (about 2-1/2 hours), then back to Tapesquillo, and then back home to Chinique. Today I met my folks in Chinique so it was only about two hours each way -- and I told them as we returned to the pueblo that I was not feeling well and needed ot get rest so I couldn't drive them back up into the mountains (I did give them some money for a camioneta -- not enough for the full fare but I had paid for the gas, bought part of our collective lunch, and paid for a half-hour lancha (boat) ride for all seven of us.
So, one of my passengers suggested that I teach her to drive so that she could share the effort. It hadn't occurred to me before, but I will think about it (actually, her younger brother knows how to drive but he doesn't have a license so I didn't turn the keys over to him, although the chances of us being pulled over by the highway patrol are fairly slim. I have rarely seen a highway patrol car doing anything except when there has been an accident or a few weeks ago when there was a roadblock in a community around KM 108-19 of the Panamericana, but still, I didn't want to chance anything.
There are very few flat surfaces anywhere in Quiché. All the streets in the town are very rough and narrow and although there is little traffic it always feels congested because of the tight squeezes and potholes and speed bumps. I learned how to drive in a parking lot of a company headquarters that was near my parent's home (International Salt). They had a big parking lot and my father would take me out on weekends or evenings when no one was there. No place like that in Chinique, for sure. But it's a thought -- certainly of as much practical use to me as other kinds of trainings (capacitaciones) that the various organizations offer to socias.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Evangelism in the back yard
Somewhere behind my house there is a loud Evangelical congregation. Today, on a Friday night, there is some kind of meeting or service going on. At first there was about an hour or so of music -- bouncy, upbeat, and kind of monotonous. In a recess of my brain, I imagined what it might sound like if recorded by barking dogs -- having in mind that infamous "Jingle Bells" featuring barking dogs, a novelty Christmas recording from some years back.
This must be a special meeting, because this is the first time in the two months that I have lived here that there is loud, loud preaching and testifying going on late on a Friday night. Unfortunately, this being Guatemala, everyone makes as much noise as they please and no one has the right, or so it seems, to complain. Not that I would in any case; although I can't quite say I am trying to "blend in", I am trying to live as normal a life as possible (which means not freaking out about the kinds of things that would be bothersome in the U.S.).
Ah, at last it seems that the preacher is starting to tone down the shouting and exhorting his flock, and we are back to music --- maybe, maybe.
This must be a special meeting, because this is the first time in the two months that I have lived here that there is loud, loud preaching and testifying going on late on a Friday night. Unfortunately, this being Guatemala, everyone makes as much noise as they please and no one has the right, or so it seems, to complain. Not that I would in any case; although I can't quite say I am trying to "blend in", I am trying to live as normal a life as possible (which means not freaking out about the kinds of things that would be bothersome in the U.S.).
Ah, at last it seems that the preacher is starting to tone down the shouting and exhorting his flock, and we are back to music --- maybe, maybe.
Quick trip to the U.S.
It's easy for professional and middle-class people from the U.S. and other privileged countries to take travel, and even international travel for granted. My academic friends in the U.S. -- at least those who have jobs, or grants -- travel frequently for research, to give talks, to attend conferences.
However, the privilege of having a passport that allows me to travel relatively freely, and a salary that, while it is certainly modest by comparison to most bankers, lawyers and other well-paid professionals, permits me to plan a couple of trips during my first few months in Guatemala, stands in sharp contrast to nearly everyone I know here. The idea that one can just pack a bag and go to the airport and get on a plane seems barely short of miraculous to most of my friends from rural communities -- a possibility so remote for many of them, that at times I almost didn't want to talk about it. When I did mention it (since I had to explain why I couldn't attend certain meetings and activities that Ixmukané had planned in late February), some of the women looked at me in amazement, that I spoke about it so casually.
My trip was occasioned by my having to meet with a colleague to plan a conference that will take place in Puerto Rico in April (yet another trip out of Guate). I taught my class, and then went straight to the airport. My friend Carmelo generously offered to meet me at the airport and take my pickup for the time I would be away; I accepted, since I had no idea what else I could do with the truck (there is a parking garage at the airport but I wasn't sure they had long-term parking and given the crime rate in Guatemala City, I would have been dubious about the security of the lot).
Entering the airport in countries like Guatemala (or Cuba), where so few people have the opportunity or the means to travel, is always a slightly disjunctive experience -- much like visiting a shopping mall with its manicured surroundings, armed security guards, and name-brand luxury goods. The Guatemala where I spend most of my time -- largely indigenous towns surrounded by even more heavily indigenous rural villages and hamlets, where the majority of people are poor and many, still, illiterate -- seems worlds away. The faint reminders are the gift shops selling handicrafts, chocolate and coffee, and the advertising posters, often emblazoned with images of women and young girls in traje típico. Few of the travelers are so attired, although I was pleased to notice that at least one airport employee was an indigenous woman (or rather, a woman whose indigeneity was marked by their wearing traje típico). The young woman who was collecting the departure tax wore traje; she was the only one I saw.
Of course, I offered to carry things to relatives in the New Bedford area. I didn't advertise this extremely widely because I was only going to be in New Bedford for about 24 hours. A few people with relatives in other locations, most of whom are pretty fuzzy about U.S. geography, inquired but I had to explain that I wasn't going anywhere near Trenton, for example, and the best I could do would be to drop a package in the mail unless their relatives wanted to come up to New York.
However, I had long ago agreed to bring some packages for the women in Oxib' B'atz'. Both Paula and Olivia, my compañeras in New Bedford, had given me things to take to their families in Guatemala: Paula had sent something for her sister Francisca, and Olivia for her mother Juana. When I had met Francisca and Juana a few days after I arrived in Guatemala, to deliver the mandados (literally "sent items"), one of the first questions they had asked (after "How are you?") was "When are you going to los Estados?" ("the states"). The same with Doña V, who has four children in the U.S. I decided not to take it as a sign that they were eager to have me leave, but rather as an indication of the urgency with which families here seek the means to communicate via in-kind remittances with their relatives in the U.S. There are package express services all over Quiché and all over Guatemala, but although I have not checked their prices, the services would have to be beyond the means of extremely poor rural families. And so the infrequent appearance of someone like myself who is likely to be traveling back to the U.S. at some point -- at the very least, at the end of my stay --holds out the possibility of being able to send something to a loved one.
I have written elsewhere (in my dissertation and some articles I wrote about Cubans and remittances) about the significance of these "reverse remittances" -- which include food, clothing and other items that carry cultural and emotional significance. In my view, the "home country" senders are, on the one hand, trying to restore the imbalance between themselves and migrant relatives; while they are grateful for what the migrants send home, whether money or other items, being positioned as only recipients distorts any kind of relationship of reciprocity. So, by sending goods to the migrants, they position themselves as senders and not just recipients of handout. Also, the cultural and emotional weight of the remittances -- beans from the family's plot, hand-woven textiles made by the sender -- might be intended (whether consciously or not) to evoke a sense of obligation and responsibility in the migrant. Families' fears that their migrant relatives will become perdidos (lost) are not paranoid fantasies. There are responsible migrants who stay in touch with their families and send money when they can; there are migrants who effectively abandon their families -- taking up with other women (or men), succumbing to drugs and alcohol. So the reminders.
There is another angle to Maya sending hand-woven textiles, especially items of women's clothing. If anyone remembers the film El Norte, the Maya K'iche' brother and sister who fled to the U.S. had to disguise their Guatemalan and indigenous identities so that they wouldn't get sent back to Guatemala. This is still true today for many Maya migrants, since nearly all make the journey por tierra (over land) and without documents. If they are apprehended at the U.S./Mexico border and are known to be Guatemala, the U.S. will deport them to Guatemala, which means starting the entire journey over again. However, if they can pass for Mexicans, then they will be deported to Mexico, which makes it easier to try and cross again.
So, people don't carry identification papers, and women trade in their traje tipico for jeans when they journey northward (and they don't even carry it with them for fear of divulging their identities). So, once they are settled in New Bedford, and have paid off their debts, they often send money home and ask their relatives to send them traje típico. No one I know wears traje except on special occasions, but most Maya women who have been in New Bedford for a few years have at least one set.
Juana is a highly skilled weaver, and on previous visits she had sent a tiny huipil she had woven (in the distinctive Zacualpa pattern), and an equally petite Zacualpa-style corte for Olivia's daughter.
So, I had arranged with Francisca and Juana that I would call them a week before I left so we could arrange for them to give me whatever they wanted to send to New Bedford. The Sunday before my departure found me heading to Zacualpa in the early morning, trying to coordinate meeting both the women, who come from aldeas that are in opposite directions from the town center. Sunday is market day, and so Francisca was already coming to town to sell some fruit and vegetables. Juana often works on market day as well, making tortillas, but she wasn't doing that this Sunday.
I felt a bit guilty that I couldn't really visit with either Juana or Francisca but I had to get back to Chinique for my English class, so they gave me their packages - Francisca had some hand-woven dish towels and a VHS cassette; Juana had two savanas that she had woven -- the word literally means "sheets", like the kind you would put on a bed, but it is used to describe a large square woven cloth. I'm not sure what distinguishes a savana from a servilleta -- if there is a size (say, a square meter) at which something becomes a savana.
I snapped a few quick photographs and then went back to Chinique. I also contacted Doña V and asked if she wanted to send anything; I cautioned that I could only take a small amount. On one previous occasion she had loaded me down with several pounds of beans and chiles, and also packages of roskitas (rusks). I told her I could take a pound of beans and a pound of chiles, and so she prepared a package and then also added some photographs (I recognized them as copies of photos I had taken).
Returning to New York was fairly seamless. I won't say it was as though I hadn't left, but I slipped comfortably back into my New York ways -- and I didn't even read Prensa Libre every day, I'm sorry to say. Although I have to confess that I did sit in the rental car lot at JFK at 2:00 a.m. for about 5 minutes reminding myself how to drive an automatic (I instinctively started to wrench the gear stick way over to the right and down for R, but of course it wouldn't budge sideways). So I soaked up New York, and relished in the tastes of wood-oven pizza and arepas in the East Village, Chinese street food in Flushing and Manhattan Chinatown. There are other varieties of food in Guatemala (especially Antigua, and probably Guatemala City too, although I spend as little time as possible there), but this was a chance to soak it in.
The trip to New Bedford was brief and I really only saw a few close colleagues in the Maya community. Leaving had been hard; while of course I was excited about the Fulbright and the opportunity to spend a longer period of time in Guatemala, my departure came at a time when there was a lot going on in the community -- initiatives that had started some time back seemed to be coming to fruition. There were plans to do a major event to commemorate the anniversary of Monseñor Gerardi's assassination, and the handicrafts assocation, Oxib' B'atz', was still in a formative stage. So I had left all of that, although I had found a student to do some work in the office and had stayed in touch via email, and we were trying to figure out how there could be meetings in New Bedford in which I could participate via Skype (that necessitated getting them a new computer; this is in the works but hasn't happened yet).
So my whirlwind visit got me caught up, sort of, on events in the community. I was greeted warmly when I arrived at the community center, and both Paula and Olivia arrived, eventually, to collect their packages and talk a bit. It was hard to give an adequate update on how things were in Guatemala: January and February were grim months in terms of crime, violence, impunity and corruption. So what does one say? "The country is really fucked up but your family is okay?" I don't want to get my friends too preoccupied about my safety; it's not that I feel I'm immune to violence, not by a long shot, but most of it does not seem to be random, and Quiché does not seem to be at the center of the maelstrom.
One friend confided that he was planning to return to Guatemala to see his family sometime in the next year or so -- but that he would come back to the U.S. (traveling, of course, by land, in the absence of any serious immigration reform between now and then). There are not that many who make the round-trip again voluntarily -- I do know of deportees who have returned to the U.S. (at great legal risk, since the penalty if one is caught and deported a second time are very severe).
However, the privilege of having a passport that allows me to travel relatively freely, and a salary that, while it is certainly modest by comparison to most bankers, lawyers and other well-paid professionals, permits me to plan a couple of trips during my first few months in Guatemala, stands in sharp contrast to nearly everyone I know here. The idea that one can just pack a bag and go to the airport and get on a plane seems barely short of miraculous to most of my friends from rural communities -- a possibility so remote for many of them, that at times I almost didn't want to talk about it. When I did mention it (since I had to explain why I couldn't attend certain meetings and activities that Ixmukané had planned in late February), some of the women looked at me in amazement, that I spoke about it so casually.
My trip was occasioned by my having to meet with a colleague to plan a conference that will take place in Puerto Rico in April (yet another trip out of Guate). I taught my class, and then went straight to the airport. My friend Carmelo generously offered to meet me at the airport and take my pickup for the time I would be away; I accepted, since I had no idea what else I could do with the truck (there is a parking garage at the airport but I wasn't sure they had long-term parking and given the crime rate in Guatemala City, I would have been dubious about the security of the lot).
Entering the airport in countries like Guatemala (or Cuba), where so few people have the opportunity or the means to travel, is always a slightly disjunctive experience -- much like visiting a shopping mall with its manicured surroundings, armed security guards, and name-brand luxury goods. The Guatemala where I spend most of my time -- largely indigenous towns surrounded by even more heavily indigenous rural villages and hamlets, where the majority of people are poor and many, still, illiterate -- seems worlds away. The faint reminders are the gift shops selling handicrafts, chocolate and coffee, and the advertising posters, often emblazoned with images of women and young girls in traje típico. Few of the travelers are so attired, although I was pleased to notice that at least one airport employee was an indigenous woman (or rather, a woman whose indigeneity was marked by their wearing traje típico). The young woman who was collecting the departure tax wore traje; she was the only one I saw.
Of course, I offered to carry things to relatives in the New Bedford area. I didn't advertise this extremely widely because I was only going to be in New Bedford for about 24 hours. A few people with relatives in other locations, most of whom are pretty fuzzy about U.S. geography, inquired but I had to explain that I wasn't going anywhere near Trenton, for example, and the best I could do would be to drop a package in the mail unless their relatives wanted to come up to New York.
However, I had long ago agreed to bring some packages for the women in Oxib' B'atz'. Both Paula and Olivia, my compañeras in New Bedford, had given me things to take to their families in Guatemala: Paula had sent something for her sister Francisca, and Olivia for her mother Juana. When I had met Francisca and Juana a few days after I arrived in Guatemala, to deliver the mandados (literally "sent items"), one of the first questions they had asked (after "How are you?") was "When are you going to los Estados?" ("the states"). The same with Doña V, who has four children in the U.S. I decided not to take it as a sign that they were eager to have me leave, but rather as an indication of the urgency with which families here seek the means to communicate via in-kind remittances with their relatives in the U.S. There are package express services all over Quiché and all over Guatemala, but although I have not checked their prices, the services would have to be beyond the means of extremely poor rural families. And so the infrequent appearance of someone like myself who is likely to be traveling back to the U.S. at some point -- at the very least, at the end of my stay --holds out the possibility of being able to send something to a loved one.
I have written elsewhere (in my dissertation and some articles I wrote about Cubans and remittances) about the significance of these "reverse remittances" -- which include food, clothing and other items that carry cultural and emotional significance. In my view, the "home country" senders are, on the one hand, trying to restore the imbalance between themselves and migrant relatives; while they are grateful for what the migrants send home, whether money or other items, being positioned as only recipients distorts any kind of relationship of reciprocity. So, by sending goods to the migrants, they position themselves as senders and not just recipients of handout. Also, the cultural and emotional weight of the remittances -- beans from the family's plot, hand-woven textiles made by the sender -- might be intended (whether consciously or not) to evoke a sense of obligation and responsibility in the migrant. Families' fears that their migrant relatives will become perdidos (lost) are not paranoid fantasies. There are responsible migrants who stay in touch with their families and send money when they can; there are migrants who effectively abandon their families -- taking up with other women (or men), succumbing to drugs and alcohol. So the reminders.
There is another angle to Maya sending hand-woven textiles, especially items of women's clothing. If anyone remembers the film El Norte, the Maya K'iche' brother and sister who fled to the U.S. had to disguise their Guatemalan and indigenous identities so that they wouldn't get sent back to Guatemala. This is still true today for many Maya migrants, since nearly all make the journey por tierra (over land) and without documents. If they are apprehended at the U.S./Mexico border and are known to be Guatemala, the U.S. will deport them to Guatemala, which means starting the entire journey over again. However, if they can pass for Mexicans, then they will be deported to Mexico, which makes it easier to try and cross again.
So, people don't carry identification papers, and women trade in their traje tipico for jeans when they journey northward (and they don't even carry it with them for fear of divulging their identities). So, once they are settled in New Bedford, and have paid off their debts, they often send money home and ask their relatives to send them traje típico. No one I know wears traje except on special occasions, but most Maya women who have been in New Bedford for a few years have at least one set.
Juana is a highly skilled weaver, and on previous visits she had sent a tiny huipil she had woven (in the distinctive Zacualpa pattern), and an equally petite Zacualpa-style corte for Olivia's daughter.
So, I had arranged with Francisca and Juana that I would call them a week before I left so we could arrange for them to give me whatever they wanted to send to New Bedford. The Sunday before my departure found me heading to Zacualpa in the early morning, trying to coordinate meeting both the women, who come from aldeas that are in opposite directions from the town center. Sunday is market day, and so Francisca was already coming to town to sell some fruit and vegetables. Juana often works on market day as well, making tortillas, but she wasn't doing that this Sunday.
I felt a bit guilty that I couldn't really visit with either Juana or Francisca but I had to get back to Chinique for my English class, so they gave me their packages - Francisca had some hand-woven dish towels and a VHS cassette; Juana had two savanas that she had woven -- the word literally means "sheets", like the kind you would put on a bed, but it is used to describe a large square woven cloth. I'm not sure what distinguishes a savana from a servilleta -- if there is a size (say, a square meter) at which something becomes a savana.
I snapped a few quick photographs and then went back to Chinique. I also contacted Doña V and asked if she wanted to send anything; I cautioned that I could only take a small amount. On one previous occasion she had loaded me down with several pounds of beans and chiles, and also packages of roskitas (rusks). I told her I could take a pound of beans and a pound of chiles, and so she prepared a package and then also added some photographs (I recognized them as copies of photos I had taken).
Returning to New York was fairly seamless. I won't say it was as though I hadn't left, but I slipped comfortably back into my New York ways -- and I didn't even read Prensa Libre every day, I'm sorry to say. Although I have to confess that I did sit in the rental car lot at JFK at 2:00 a.m. for about 5 minutes reminding myself how to drive an automatic (I instinctively started to wrench the gear stick way over to the right and down for R, but of course it wouldn't budge sideways). So I soaked up New York, and relished in the tastes of wood-oven pizza and arepas in the East Village, Chinese street food in Flushing and Manhattan Chinatown. There are other varieties of food in Guatemala (especially Antigua, and probably Guatemala City too, although I spend as little time as possible there), but this was a chance to soak it in.
The trip to New Bedford was brief and I really only saw a few close colleagues in the Maya community. Leaving had been hard; while of course I was excited about the Fulbright and the opportunity to spend a longer period of time in Guatemala, my departure came at a time when there was a lot going on in the community -- initiatives that had started some time back seemed to be coming to fruition. There were plans to do a major event to commemorate the anniversary of Monseñor Gerardi's assassination, and the handicrafts assocation, Oxib' B'atz', was still in a formative stage. So I had left all of that, although I had found a student to do some work in the office and had stayed in touch via email, and we were trying to figure out how there could be meetings in New Bedford in which I could participate via Skype (that necessitated getting them a new computer; this is in the works but hasn't happened yet).
So my whirlwind visit got me caught up, sort of, on events in the community. I was greeted warmly when I arrived at the community center, and both Paula and Olivia arrived, eventually, to collect their packages and talk a bit. It was hard to give an adequate update on how things were in Guatemala: January and February were grim months in terms of crime, violence, impunity and corruption. So what does one say? "The country is really fucked up but your family is okay?" I don't want to get my friends too preoccupied about my safety; it's not that I feel I'm immune to violence, not by a long shot, but most of it does not seem to be random, and Quiché does not seem to be at the center of the maelstrom.
One friend confided that he was planning to return to Guatemala to see his family sometime in the next year or so -- but that he would come back to the U.S. (traveling, of course, by land, in the absence of any serious immigration reform between now and then). There are not that many who make the round-trip again voluntarily -- I do know of deportees who have returned to the U.S. (at great legal risk, since the penalty if one is caught and deported a second time are very severe).
Monday, February 21, 2011
Fair trade and indigenous women: Oxlajuj Batz
Everywhere one turns, it seems, there are NGOs and volunteer organizations and fair trade groups and cooperatives, many of them focused on women, especially indigenous women. In recent years there has been a spike in fair trade and foreign non-profit organizations working with indigenous women artisans. It makes sense, as Guatemala is well known for its hand woven textiles; "Maya weaving" is one of the "brands" that the national tourist agency, Inguat, uses to promote Guatemala. I write this not to in any way belittle the efforts of these groups or to minimize the crying need to address women's issues; the fact that only a tiny fraction of the violent crimes against women are ever prosecuted is just one index of the grave problems that women, and particularly rural women, face. I myself am involved in some such efforts, although deeply aware of some of the contradictions.
I will leave a fuller analysis or reflection upon the politics of handicrafts and fair trade for another time. Some months ago, in the early phases of establishing a Mayan women's handicrafts association in New Bedford, I came across an organization based in Panajachel, Sololá, called Oxlajuj B'atz (thirteen threads). When we were starting to brainstorm possible names for our group, one of the first names my Maya colleagues came up with was Oxlajuj B'atz (oxlajuj means thirteen in K'iche', but it is also used to refer to a large group or collective). So I started to search to see if the name was "available". I didn't find any corporation under that name registered in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but I searched a bit farther and found a non-profit based in Guatemala that worked with a number of women's handicrafts cooperatives in different parts of the highlands. We chose another name for our group (Oxib' B'atz: three threads) but I decided to write to Oxlajuj B'atz anyhow. I explained how I had come across their organization and also told them about our group, and mentioned that I would be in Guatemala in 2011. A few months later I received a very friendly (and somewhat apologetic) reply from someone on their staff named Andrea, who invited me to contact them when I was in Guatemala. I started trying to call and email her shortly before I arrived, and after a few abortive attempts we finally spoke by phone and agreed that I would come down to visit them on Thursday, February 10.
So, last week, after my usual Thursday morning yoga class in Antigua and some errands, I set off for Panajachel. This was my first trip to Lake Atitlán; previously I'd only seen it from a distance -- there is a "scenic view" spot along the Panamericana, called the Mirador de las Nubes (lookout point of the clouds) and I stopped there once on my first trip to Guatemala but I had never been to the lake itself.
The directions had me taking the highway to Los Encuentros -- a pretty ugly crossroads along the highway. There is actually a town and perhaps the town center is lovely but my only encounter with Los Encuentros is as the junction where there is a big green and white sign informing drivers that if you take the right fork, it will take you to Santa Cruz del Quiché and other points in Quiché; the left fork (which is really the continuation of the road) will take you to Quetzaltenango (also called Xela). The junction itself is crowded with buses and camionetas and trucks; passengers walk in the middle of the road, dispatchers or inspectors (not sure who they are but there are usually some people who seem to have clipboards or pads of paper walking around between the vehicles) circulate, some food vendors perambulate, and the whole thing is a bit of a mess. I had always taken the turnoff for Quiché, but this time I stayed to the left and then looked for the turnoff to Sololá (the town right before Pana) and then for Panajachel.
The road was narrow but only gentle curves and slopes until I reached Sololá and then it started to really wind down towards the lake. Sharp hairpin curves along cliffs, with the lake surface peeking through the trees to my right, a dizzying sight. No false moves here; a sloppy turn and you wind up doing something that looks like Thelma and Louise or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. So I didn't really look at the lake much and certainly didn't stop to take pictures along the way (I did take photos -- just a few -- down in the town, along the lakefront).
I found my way through the town and turned onto Calle Santander, lined with stalls selling handicrafts, jewelry, and also storefront boutiques. There looked to be a few businesses that would be of interest to locals, but a lot of cafés, restaurants, and also, a number of shops designed to appeal to tourists of good conscience, promising that the proceeds of the tour or the sales would go to benefit women or children or families. The pedestrians walking along the street were a mixed lot: mostly foreigners, split pretty evenly between three groups: young people (with their fair share of tattoos, piercings, dreads, gauzy skirts); and then two groups of not-so-young. One seemed to be more well-heeled vacationers or retirees, and the other, solidarity tourists or volunteers (distinguished by their clothing, body language, hair styles). I overshot the corner where Andrea had said she would be but since we both had cell phones we quickly found each other and she guided me through the one way streets around the block to the building that Oxlajuj B'atz occupies.
Andrea explained that they had fairly recently moved into this building which is very centrally located. The building, which is over 100 years old, was purchased by a Dutch expatriate who is renovating it for varied uses. There will be two rental apartments; a restaurant; some other areas that have not been defined. Oxlajuj B'atz has a storefront, where they sell the good produced by the various cooperatives with which they work, and office and meeting space upstairs. Andrea explained that the store serves as a training site as much as a revenue-generating enterprise; they don't really expect the store to generate a steady revenue stream but women can gain experience in sales that can perhaps lead to jobs in the future. I didn't really look at the store closely until after I had gone upstairs to meet and then outside to walk around, so I will more or less write this "in order".
After giving me a tour, including the patio out back where they will be doing weaving demonstrations, Andrea took me to the conference room and heated some water for tea and explained the history of the organization. This non-profit was founded by some folks from the states, who worked with other non-profits that did work in Maya communities, and then it became autonomous, although it still uses the Maya Educational Foundation as its fiscal sponsor. The cooperatives with which it works are in over a dozen communities, spread throughout 7 departments. Some of the cooperatives are quite seasoned; the one member cooperative that is located in Quiché has been in existence for 25 years, and many of the current members are daughters of the original founders.
There is a staff person who visits the cooperatives regularly, and the women come into Panajachel (I'm not sure with what frequency; probably depends upon the cooperative and how far it is from Pana) to bring the finished goods to place at the store. In addition, there are workshops and training sessions: for example, on women's rights, conflict resolution, leadership, organizational structure. The central office tries to provide support for the cooperatives (that is, helping them figure out effective ways of running themselves) and markets their goods while trying to keep them from being dependent on the central office (i.e. "you tell us what to do and we'll do it.").
She gave me a few brochures, apologizing that they were in Spanish; I explained that they would be useful since I could give them to the women in Oxib' B'atz' in Guatemala and in New Bedford. She also printed out a copy of their strategic plan for the next five years, which I have to admit I haven't had time to read (I have several hours in airports and on planes next week, so plenty of time for reading).
I mentioned that I wanted to find a way for the women in Tapesquillo -- the Guatemalan contingent of Oxib' B'atz' -- to meet some of the more established cooperatives. While Adrian, my colleague back in New Bedford, is very concerned about the group, both in New Bedford and in Guatemala, maintaining its autonomy and "doing its own thing", the women in Tapesquillo have almost no organizational experience. Maybe the "almost" is being generous. I'm not interested in having them follow someone else's blueprint, but I think it would help them to see another group that is up and running, and to be able to talk to some other women who are in circumstances similar to theirs -- living in isolated rural communities with little in the way of jobs or education -- and perhaps gain some confidence (as well as pick up some useful tips). Otherwise I fear that I'd have to help jump start them (and I still might decide to do some workshops on organization for them), or they would just sit around and wait for Adrian or someone to tell them what to do next.
Andrea told me that there was an international women's day activity planned on the Saturday prior to March 8 -- the women from the different cooperatives would be coming to Panajachel and doing weaving demonstrations in the courtyard. The women from Tapesquillo were welcome to come, and this way they could meet a lot of the groups and also see the entire set up. I said I'd speak with them, and also expressed an interest in having them meet directly with one of the longer-running cooperatives since I imagined that at a public event with a lot of people there might not be a chance to really have a focused conversation. So we agreed that I would stop in some Tuesday when they have a staff meeting and then get put in contact with the group in Quiché.
Andrea told me that there was a lot of pretty overt racism in the town. Most of the population of the town center is Ladino and foreigners (tourists and expats), and the indigenous people live in the surrounding areas. They of course come into the town center to take advantage of the presence of tourists. fair amount of resentment in the town
I wanted to take a look at the lake and the view, so I made my way back to Santander and walked away from the center, down towards the water, past more stores and vendors and tourists. Many of the vendors -- it was nearly 5 -- looked as though they had just about run out of steam; some were clustered on the ground near their stands talking, but were unwilling to pack up in case they got some sales.
Once I got to the lake, I noticed that there were as many Guatemalan tourists as there were foreign visitors (Andrea, who lives in Pana, had told me that it was a popular site with Guatemalans and my limited experience bore that out). A few young couples embracing; a few groups of young men looking at the view and taking photographs of it and themselves. The sky changed every few minutes, clouds and mist circling around the mountains. I would have stayed longer but I was anxious about reaching Los Encuentros before dark (it gets dark very quickly in the mountains: long twilight and then poof! black sky). I thought I could probably maneuver the road from Los Encuentros to Chinique in the dark if necessary (and yes, I did, although it was very slow going with all the hairpin turns and lack of lighting or reflectors).
Back at the shop, I tried to resist the temptation to buy out half the stock. Each item had a small tag (they are all identical in size and basic design) that opens to a bilingual (Spanish and English) description of the cooperative from which item had come (the individual artisan was not always named). Here, for example, is the text on the tag for a maroon cotton scarf I bought (the scarf has a slit so that you can slip one side through, depending upon how you want to arrange it).
Waqxaqi Kan means "the 8th Weaving Day" in our language, Kaqchikel. The group was formed in 1985 by 6 women widowed from the Guatemalan civil war remaining alone to raise our children. We got organized and started looking for opportunities to be available to help our families through our ability to weave. Now we are 20 women working with a variety of handicrafts.
There was a space to write the name (but it was blank on this particular scarf). In addition to handwoven scarves, table runners, place mats, and bedspreads, there were also small purses and wallets, and some notebooks that were bound in handwoven cloth. There were some sewn handbags, and also some other items: fair trade coffee (but no dark roast, so I didn't buy it); chocolate balls for making hot chocolate; some ceramics; some artisanal-made shampoos, and a few DVDs and calendars.
When I was able to tell the women in Tapesquillo about this, they were excited about the idea of taking a trip to Panajachel. Because of poverty and lack of transportation, they don't get to go to many places, and they are envious of my mobility. Since none of the three women who have been most interested in the project has a partner at the moment (two are single mothers, the other is just single) they joked about looking for novios (boyfriends) in Panajachel. Their mother/mother in law -- two of the women are sisters and one is their sister in law -- joined in the merriment and said she wanted to come too, and look for a new husband (her husband was in the room but not paying much attention to our conversation).
I will leave a fuller analysis or reflection upon the politics of handicrafts and fair trade for another time. Some months ago, in the early phases of establishing a Mayan women's handicrafts association in New Bedford, I came across an organization based in Panajachel, Sololá, called Oxlajuj B'atz (thirteen threads). When we were starting to brainstorm possible names for our group, one of the first names my Maya colleagues came up with was Oxlajuj B'atz (oxlajuj means thirteen in K'iche', but it is also used to refer to a large group or collective). So I started to search to see if the name was "available". I didn't find any corporation under that name registered in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, but I searched a bit farther and found a non-profit based in Guatemala that worked with a number of women's handicrafts cooperatives in different parts of the highlands. We chose another name for our group (Oxib' B'atz: three threads) but I decided to write to Oxlajuj B'atz anyhow. I explained how I had come across their organization and also told them about our group, and mentioned that I would be in Guatemala in 2011. A few months later I received a very friendly (and somewhat apologetic) reply from someone on their staff named Andrea, who invited me to contact them when I was in Guatemala. I started trying to call and email her shortly before I arrived, and after a few abortive attempts we finally spoke by phone and agreed that I would come down to visit them on Thursday, February 10.
So, last week, after my usual Thursday morning yoga class in Antigua and some errands, I set off for Panajachel. This was my first trip to Lake Atitlán; previously I'd only seen it from a distance -- there is a "scenic view" spot along the Panamericana, called the Mirador de las Nubes (lookout point of the clouds) and I stopped there once on my first trip to Guatemala but I had never been to the lake itself.
The directions had me taking the highway to Los Encuentros -- a pretty ugly crossroads along the highway. There is actually a town and perhaps the town center is lovely but my only encounter with Los Encuentros is as the junction where there is a big green and white sign informing drivers that if you take the right fork, it will take you to Santa Cruz del Quiché and other points in Quiché; the left fork (which is really the continuation of the road) will take you to Quetzaltenango (also called Xela). The junction itself is crowded with buses and camionetas and trucks; passengers walk in the middle of the road, dispatchers or inspectors (not sure who they are but there are usually some people who seem to have clipboards or pads of paper walking around between the vehicles) circulate, some food vendors perambulate, and the whole thing is a bit of a mess. I had always taken the turnoff for Quiché, but this time I stayed to the left and then looked for the turnoff to Sololá (the town right before Pana) and then for Panajachel.
The road was narrow but only gentle curves and slopes until I reached Sololá and then it started to really wind down towards the lake. Sharp hairpin curves along cliffs, with the lake surface peeking through the trees to my right, a dizzying sight. No false moves here; a sloppy turn and you wind up doing something that looks like Thelma and Louise or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. So I didn't really look at the lake much and certainly didn't stop to take pictures along the way (I did take photos -- just a few -- down in the town, along the lakefront).
I found my way through the town and turned onto Calle Santander, lined with stalls selling handicrafts, jewelry, and also storefront boutiques. There looked to be a few businesses that would be of interest to locals, but a lot of cafés, restaurants, and also, a number of shops designed to appeal to tourists of good conscience, promising that the proceeds of the tour or the sales would go to benefit women or children or families. The pedestrians walking along the street were a mixed lot: mostly foreigners, split pretty evenly between three groups: young people (with their fair share of tattoos, piercings, dreads, gauzy skirts); and then two groups of not-so-young. One seemed to be more well-heeled vacationers or retirees, and the other, solidarity tourists or volunteers (distinguished by their clothing, body language, hair styles). I overshot the corner where Andrea had said she would be but since we both had cell phones we quickly found each other and she guided me through the one way streets around the block to the building that Oxlajuj B'atz occupies.
Andrea explained that they had fairly recently moved into this building which is very centrally located. The building, which is over 100 years old, was purchased by a Dutch expatriate who is renovating it for varied uses. There will be two rental apartments; a restaurant; some other areas that have not been defined. Oxlajuj B'atz has a storefront, where they sell the good produced by the various cooperatives with which they work, and office and meeting space upstairs. Andrea explained that the store serves as a training site as much as a revenue-generating enterprise; they don't really expect the store to generate a steady revenue stream but women can gain experience in sales that can perhaps lead to jobs in the future. I didn't really look at the store closely until after I had gone upstairs to meet and then outside to walk around, so I will more or less write this "in order".
After giving me a tour, including the patio out back where they will be doing weaving demonstrations, Andrea took me to the conference room and heated some water for tea and explained the history of the organization. This non-profit was founded by some folks from the states, who worked with other non-profits that did work in Maya communities, and then it became autonomous, although it still uses the Maya Educational Foundation as its fiscal sponsor. The cooperatives with which it works are in over a dozen communities, spread throughout 7 departments. Some of the cooperatives are quite seasoned; the one member cooperative that is located in Quiché has been in existence for 25 years, and many of the current members are daughters of the original founders.
There is a staff person who visits the cooperatives regularly, and the women come into Panajachel (I'm not sure with what frequency; probably depends upon the cooperative and how far it is from Pana) to bring the finished goods to place at the store. In addition, there are workshops and training sessions: for example, on women's rights, conflict resolution, leadership, organizational structure. The central office tries to provide support for the cooperatives (that is, helping them figure out effective ways of running themselves) and markets their goods while trying to keep them from being dependent on the central office (i.e. "you tell us what to do and we'll do it.").
She gave me a few brochures, apologizing that they were in Spanish; I explained that they would be useful since I could give them to the women in Oxib' B'atz' in Guatemala and in New Bedford. She also printed out a copy of their strategic plan for the next five years, which I have to admit I haven't had time to read (I have several hours in airports and on planes next week, so plenty of time for reading).
I mentioned that I wanted to find a way for the women in Tapesquillo -- the Guatemalan contingent of Oxib' B'atz' -- to meet some of the more established cooperatives. While Adrian, my colleague back in New Bedford, is very concerned about the group, both in New Bedford and in Guatemala, maintaining its autonomy and "doing its own thing", the women in Tapesquillo have almost no organizational experience. Maybe the "almost" is being generous. I'm not interested in having them follow someone else's blueprint, but I think it would help them to see another group that is up and running, and to be able to talk to some other women who are in circumstances similar to theirs -- living in isolated rural communities with little in the way of jobs or education -- and perhaps gain some confidence (as well as pick up some useful tips). Otherwise I fear that I'd have to help jump start them (and I still might decide to do some workshops on organization for them), or they would just sit around and wait for Adrian or someone to tell them what to do next.
Andrea told me that there was an international women's day activity planned on the Saturday prior to March 8 -- the women from the different cooperatives would be coming to Panajachel and doing weaving demonstrations in the courtyard. The women from Tapesquillo were welcome to come, and this way they could meet a lot of the groups and also see the entire set up. I said I'd speak with them, and also expressed an interest in having them meet directly with one of the longer-running cooperatives since I imagined that at a public event with a lot of people there might not be a chance to really have a focused conversation. So we agreed that I would stop in some Tuesday when they have a staff meeting and then get put in contact with the group in Quiché.
Andrea told me that there was a lot of pretty overt racism in the town. Most of the population of the town center is Ladino and foreigners (tourists and expats), and the indigenous people live in the surrounding areas. They of course come into the town center to take advantage of the presence of tourists. fair amount of resentment in the town
I wanted to take a look at the lake and the view, so I made my way back to Santander and walked away from the center, down towards the water, past more stores and vendors and tourists. Many of the vendors -- it was nearly 5 -- looked as though they had just about run out of steam; some were clustered on the ground near their stands talking, but were unwilling to pack up in case they got some sales.
Once I got to the lake, I noticed that there were as many Guatemalan tourists as there were foreign visitors (Andrea, who lives in Pana, had told me that it was a popular site with Guatemalans and my limited experience bore that out). A few young couples embracing; a few groups of young men looking at the view and taking photographs of it and themselves. The sky changed every few minutes, clouds and mist circling around the mountains. I would have stayed longer but I was anxious about reaching Los Encuentros before dark (it gets dark very quickly in the mountains: long twilight and then poof! black sky). I thought I could probably maneuver the road from Los Encuentros to Chinique in the dark if necessary (and yes, I did, although it was very slow going with all the hairpin turns and lack of lighting or reflectors).
Back at the shop, I tried to resist the temptation to buy out half the stock. Each item had a small tag (they are all identical in size and basic design) that opens to a bilingual (Spanish and English) description of the cooperative from which item had come (the individual artisan was not always named). Here, for example, is the text on the tag for a maroon cotton scarf I bought (the scarf has a slit so that you can slip one side through, depending upon how you want to arrange it).
Waqxaqi Kan means "the 8th Weaving Day" in our language, Kaqchikel. The group was formed in 1985 by 6 women widowed from the Guatemalan civil war remaining alone to raise our children. We got organized and started looking for opportunities to be available to help our families through our ability to weave. Now we are 20 women working with a variety of handicrafts.
There was a space to write the name (but it was blank on this particular scarf). In addition to handwoven scarves, table runners, place mats, and bedspreads, there were also small purses and wallets, and some notebooks that were bound in handwoven cloth. There were some sewn handbags, and also some other items: fair trade coffee (but no dark roast, so I didn't buy it); chocolate balls for making hot chocolate; some ceramics; some artisanal-made shampoos, and a few DVDs and calendars.
When I was able to tell the women in Tapesquillo about this, they were excited about the idea of taking a trip to Panajachel. Because of poverty and lack of transportation, they don't get to go to many places, and they are envious of my mobility. Since none of the three women who have been most interested in the project has a partner at the moment (two are single mothers, the other is just single) they joked about looking for novios (boyfriends) in Panajachel. Their mother/mother in law -- two of the women are sisters and one is their sister in law -- joined in the merriment and said she wanted to come too, and look for a new husband (her husband was in the room but not paying much attention to our conversation).
Cars and crime
Okay, so I've been hit with two petty crimes against my car (here pickups or "picops" are lumped under the general rubric of "carro"). The first occurred about two weeks ago; the last one this weekend.
On one of my Sunday excursions up to teach English in Tapesquillo, someone (probably a local kid) apparently tried to remove one of the "aros" (the decorative hoops that adorn the wheels of my truck). The aros do not serve any real function as far as I can tell, and they are secured on with plastic fasteners in addition to being fit into the wheel rim. I had parked the pickup about 25 yards up the road from the entrance to the school, next to the local church, one of the few places on the road to Tapesquillo 1 where there is space alongside the road to leave a vehicle.
However, the school building is quite a ways down the path... so it's not like anyone was surveilling the road. I returned to my car to see that one of the aros (passenger's side, front) was hanging off (although the plastic clip was still fastened). I wedged it back in, and my friends suggested that the next time I come I put my car inside the gate that opens to their house.
There isn't really a driveway, however ... the road takes a very sharp curve right where my friends' home is, and there are is a very steep drop from the paved surface, a lot of ruts and rocks. It looks really, really sketchy. Also you have to walk through someone else's property to get to their house (i.e. their house does not front onto the road but is behind and below another house). I was worried about my ability to get out of the "driveway" (a well-founded fear, as you will see below). I put the car halfway into the "driveway" and was able to partially close the gate behind.
But when I returned to the car, the aro (same one: passenger's side, front wheel) was missing. My friends assumed some neighborhood kids had probably taken it to use for a toy, or just to mess around -- I can't imagine that a single aro would have much if any resale value. What I don't know is whether this was specifically targeted against me (as the lone gringa who traverses the road to Tapesquillo), or whether it was generalized mischief.
Then, Saturday night or Sunday morning, someone removed both driver's side and passenger's side mirrors on the truck. I have access to a parking space two and a half blocks away from my house, where my landlord parks his truck. It is not locked but it is off the street. However, sometimes I've just been tired or lazy. And until Saturday nothing had ever happened.
Sunday morning when I returned from my walk, I was walking along the sidewalk and noticed something odd where the mirror should have been on the driver's side of the truck (I had parked with the driver's side next to the sidewalk: people park their cars every which way here. I thought someone had folded the mirror in to get by but when I got closer I saw that there was no mirror, just the arm that held the mirror. I looked on the passenger's side and someone had industriously taken a screw driver and removed the mirror and the arm that held it.
Again, no way of knowing whether this was general mischief or whether someone knows this is my car and is expressing his (sorry, I can't imagine a young woman doing this, not in this town) resentment.
Luckily I live across from an auto service center, and although they were not open on Sunday, they took care of it first thing this morning. And from now on I will be parking off the street, no matter how tired or lazy I am.
On one of my Sunday excursions up to teach English in Tapesquillo, someone (probably a local kid) apparently tried to remove one of the "aros" (the decorative hoops that adorn the wheels of my truck). The aros do not serve any real function as far as I can tell, and they are secured on with plastic fasteners in addition to being fit into the wheel rim. I had parked the pickup about 25 yards up the road from the entrance to the school, next to the local church, one of the few places on the road to Tapesquillo 1 where there is space alongside the road to leave a vehicle.
However, the school building is quite a ways down the path... so it's not like anyone was surveilling the road. I returned to my car to see that one of the aros (passenger's side, front) was hanging off (although the plastic clip was still fastened). I wedged it back in, and my friends suggested that the next time I come I put my car inside the gate that opens to their house.
There isn't really a driveway, however ... the road takes a very sharp curve right where my friends' home is, and there are is a very steep drop from the paved surface, a lot of ruts and rocks. It looks really, really sketchy. Also you have to walk through someone else's property to get to their house (i.e. their house does not front onto the road but is behind and below another house). I was worried about my ability to get out of the "driveway" (a well-founded fear, as you will see below). I put the car halfway into the "driveway" and was able to partially close the gate behind.
But when I returned to the car, the aro (same one: passenger's side, front wheel) was missing. My friends assumed some neighborhood kids had probably taken it to use for a toy, or just to mess around -- I can't imagine that a single aro would have much if any resale value. What I don't know is whether this was specifically targeted against me (as the lone gringa who traverses the road to Tapesquillo), or whether it was generalized mischief.
Then, Saturday night or Sunday morning, someone removed both driver's side and passenger's side mirrors on the truck. I have access to a parking space two and a half blocks away from my house, where my landlord parks his truck. It is not locked but it is off the street. However, sometimes I've just been tired or lazy. And until Saturday nothing had ever happened.
Sunday morning when I returned from my walk, I was walking along the sidewalk and noticed something odd where the mirror should have been on the driver's side of the truck (I had parked with the driver's side next to the sidewalk: people park their cars every which way here. I thought someone had folded the mirror in to get by but when I got closer I saw that there was no mirror, just the arm that held the mirror. I looked on the passenger's side and someone had industriously taken a screw driver and removed the mirror and the arm that held it.
Again, no way of knowing whether this was general mischief or whether someone knows this is my car and is expressing his (sorry, I can't imagine a young woman doing this, not in this town) resentment.
Luckily I live across from an auto service center, and although they were not open on Sunday, they took care of it first thing this morning. And from now on I will be parking off the street, no matter how tired or lazy I am.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
A chance encounter: Ofrendas en Chiché
Today being Saturday, I went to the market in Chiché, planning just a quick stop to get some yerbas (greens), chicken and some gifts to bring back when I return to the U.S. for a brief visit next week. I told myself sternly before leaving to not allow myself to get seduced and buy too much, so that I don't end up with a puddle of brown mush in the fridge upon my return. Last week I ended up giving away a couple of things (small quantities) so they didn't rot and go to waste.
On the way back, as I was snaking my way out of town, I passed in front of the church, a simple but lovely structure. I've never stopped there, but today my eyes and nose were grabbed by the sight and smell of three men on the plaza in front of the church, wielding metal cans filled with pungent incense, the smoke of which spiraled through the air in great clouds: sacerdotes Mayas (or aq'iqs).
I greeted them (they nodded their acknowledgment of my presence even as they continued their prayers and their labors with the incense) and motioned towards my camera; they nodded again (which I took to mean that it was okay to take photographs), and I did my best to not impede their work.
One stood in front of the entrance, on the steps; I noticed that at his feet he had a small burlap sack with candles, a plastic bag filled with what looked like popped corn, and a small flask of aguardiente or rum.
I do not know a lot about Maya religious practices -- that is, I don't know the details of prayers and the specific meaning of each of the offerings. But my previous experiences with Afrocuban religions (and the few discussions I have had with Maya friends about religion) have given me a basic conceptual scheme. Like in Afrocuban religions, the Catholic Church provides a locus or a shelter. I don't think people think of what they are doing as "syncretic"; they are simply doing what they do. So it didn't surprise me that the church was open, and that people in the community were using it for their own purposes -- and although I didn't speak to anyone today about what they were doing, I would imagine that they did not see any contradiction between today's offerings and perhaps going to Mass tomorrow. Although the Catholic Church has not always been hospitable to Maya religion (or "spirituality" as it might be called), and certainly not at all levels, there have been priests (and nuns) who have been tolerant or welcoming; in 2009, I attended a community worship led by a Franciscan sister in a remote rural community, and the floor was decorated with traditional offerings: candles in four colors, pine needles, and before the Catholic prayers began, everyone knelt and saluted the four cardinal directions with prayers in K'iche'.
When I entered the church building I was momentarily blinded: the sun's rays refracted through a thick cloud of incense smoke. There were three low flat stone tables in the center of the church -- that is, in the middle, an equal distance from the side walls, and leading in a line towards the altar. Each was partially covered with thin white candles, brightly flaming, arranged in evenly spaced rows. As I stood and watched, two other priests tended the tables: saying prayers, lighting more candles, and placing the end of each newly-lit candle in the flame of one already standing, softening the wax so that the candle could stand upright, eventually filling the space on top of each tables. Each one worked slightly differently and I didn't stay long enough to analyze what each did, but they lit candles, sprinkled flower petals, and then rum on top, reciting prayers all the while.
One man worked alone, his wife kneeling quietly alongside or slightly behind him. Another, younger man, was accompanied by a friend, assistant or another priest. There were a few women seated on the side of the church, and when I arrived one woman was kneeling alongside the altar at the front, which was already nearly filled with candles. I again motioned to the priests when they looked at me, with my camera in hand, and they indicated their assent. The air was sweet and heavy with incense and although I don't know enough K'iche' to understand the prayers, and I didn't know the specific details of why this offering was being made, I tried to imagine what it might be about.
Two young women dressed in jeans came in while I was there, and few elderly men wearing morales (crocheted shoulder bags) and straw hats. A young girl wearing a Chichicastenango-style huipil over a pair of maroon or purple sweatpants with a white stripe down the side and sneakers scampered in and out.
I moved back to the entrance, and saw that the spaces on either side of the open doors had been filled with candles placed on the floor. Back outside, one of the priests was standing in front of a small house-like structure on the plaza in front of the church. It had three arched openings in the front, and he placed round globe of incense and candles on the ground inside each of the arches -- starting on the right, lit the candles, and then stepped back and swung his censer around as the candles burned and then the incense inside caught fire.
A friend who saw the photos on Facebook says that this would have been an offering to Tojil; he didn't offer more details but in looking through a few sources, I found references to Tohil as either a fire deity or a jaguar deity, who was especially important to the K'iche' and Kaqchikel. According to some sources he is the patron deity of the K'iche', or at least the patron deity of Q'umarcaj, which was the ancient K'iche' capital (the remains of which I visited a few weeks ago).
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