Natural disasters (not)

It is hard to live and especially to drive in Guatemala during the rainy season, which is effectively half of the year, and not be astounded, if not alarmed at times, by the frequency of landslides and flooding.  That is, if one is not from here. The other day, driving back to Quiche from Antigua, I was stopped on the highway for about half an hour around kilometer 105 (that's about halfway between Tecpan and Los Encuentros, where the highway that leads through Quiche starts). We had ground to a complete half and then cars on our side began to inch forward slowly. About half a mile later, I saw what was causing the stoppage. It appeared as though a substantial chunk of the mountain on the opposite side of the highway (roughly the western side, along the right hand side of the lanes heading towards Guatemala City and the south) had fallen down as a result of the constant rains of the previous night. I have seen a lot of landslides (although not quite as many as last summer along the CA-1 between Guatemala and Los Encuentros), but I have not seen boulders that big anywhere here. There were huge chunks of rock that were nearly the size of cars. Three lanes of the highway were blocked off effectively -- both southbound lanes and one northbound lane. There were some tractors and cranes out, and they had managed to clear one lane, and the police were directing traffic so that some cars heading southbound could go through, and then some going northbound. I've gotten used to seeing roads blocked, fallen trees on the highway, large accumulations of mud blocking a lane or so, but this was pretty terrifying, because it appeared as though as much of the slope above was now on the ground as remained standing.

This put me to thinking about why there are so many landslides along the highways, and, more generally about the string of disasters that we have had this past week in Guatemala. Monday afternoon, there were 4 earthquakes, ranging between 4.7 and 5.8, concentrated in the department of Santa Rosa, to the east of the capital. And then there was an avalanche in Santa Cruz Barillas in Huehuetenango. At the same time, there appeared an article in the papers that the government disaster-response agency, CONRED (Nartional Council for the Reduction of Disasters) had run out of funding. There were a lot of people displaced in Santa Rosa, and in Huehuetenango people were buried in the avalanche. At least one person died immediately, and about 15 were missing. A total of 11 people had died, as of Friday, September 23.

Clearly, earthquakes are going to happen in a country where there are many seismic faults. But the human impact of these occurrences is anything but natural. By calling them "natural disasters," we mask the highly social causes and the extremely unequal impacts. It should not escape anyone's attention that the vast majority of people who are displaced, rendered homeless, injured or killed in floods, landslides, avalanches, and earthquakes are poor people of color.  You got that one, right? Remember Katrina, everyone? The flood waters might have been color-blind and class-neutral, but the communities that were constructed in the most vulnerable areas were predominantly poor and working class communities and communities of color (although, as many commentators have pointed out, the Ninth Ward, which received most of the media attention during the flood and its aftermath, had many working class and middle class home-owning families).

Many years back, sometime in the late 1970s or early 1980s, I heard a talk by a Marxist geographer named Phil O'Keefe that forever changed the way that I looked at such catastrophes; I think the title was "How Natural is a Natural Disaster?" Phil's central points were basically what I have stated above: that calling such events "natural" is a way of avoiding (or hiding) the social roots and impacts. That if we do not look at underlying social and economic inequalities, such as highly skewed landholding patterns, or the limited availability of jobs, that lead to poor people building their homes on the slopes of volcanos or in flood plains, then we miss much of the story. And by continually referring to these as "natural" disasters we deny the role of capitalism -- and highly conscious choices by those in power -- that have led to and exacerbated those gross inequalities.

So, this helps understand what are, unfortunately, entirely everyday occurrences in Guatemala.  I am not an expert in civil engineering or highway construction, and so I do not know why the highways routes were constructed precisely in the way that they have been. It is a mountainous country and there are probably not a lot of ways to trace a line from the capital to the altiplano that would not involve bisecting a couple of dozen mountains. I do know enough about the way things work in Guatemala to know that contracts for things like highway construction and highway repair go to the buddies of whatever politicians are in power at the moment. And probably also for highway design. I haven't researched any of this in Guatemala, mind you, but I have studied the social causation of disasters, and also processes of "modernization" and "development" in developing countries in general, and how modernizing elites and states grab onto "development" projects for political (and financial) ends.  Cronyism and corruption are such an ingrained part of the way that the state functions in Guatemala that they seem entirely unremarkable. Of course the roads were probably poorly planned in the first place. Some government, enamored of the ideology of modernity, promoted the idea that building highways would integrate Guatemala's rural areas into the modern nation-state (when actually they probably mostly serve to facilitate the transportation of the products of international capitalism into rural areas, disrupt subsistence economies, and promote consumerism -- I mean, we don't actually believe that Coca Cola is creating any jobs in Quiché, do we? Just checking. Good! Now we can move on).

The highways were probably planned without taking into account what might happen to the mountains that were being slashed through in the long term. Undoubtedly, the highways were built in a shoddy fashion -- some friend of a politician got the contract and wanted to be sure he'd get hired again to do the repairs. No interest in building roads that would last; that goes against the grain of rapacious capitalism.  And so the roads are almost designed to be vulnerable, and to need repairs. And so when rocks fall, when the road surface is covered with mud and gravel, when we see gaping holes in the surface of the mountain slope, drivers mostly just sigh, downshift, work our way around the obstruction, grumble, curse, and go on.  We all grumble about this, but no one expects anything very different of the state and its buddies in private capital.

The road conditions in rural areas are equally treacherous, although there are not as many mudslides in my part of Quiché.  Up here, the road I travel most days from Chinique to Santa Cruz, RD-2, has deteriorated steadily over the past few months of the rainy season. Every few days a new pothole appears; there are sections that are so deeply scarred and pocked with potholes that it is impossible to find a smooth stretch (usually when there are potholes, you can find a space between and around them), and so driving is bumpy, uncomfortable, and potentially dangerous -- certainly for one's tires and chassis, but also to one's life and limb, as cars swerve and veer to try and find the least bumpy way around.

We can also use this analysis of social geography to look at the large number of traffic accidents and the demographics of fatalities. Last week there was a truck that ran off the road in San Miguel Ixtahuacan, San Marcos. It was carrying about 50 jornaleros (day laborerers), and several dozen people were injured as a result of the crash, and three or four died (one immediately and the others within a day or two from their injuries). At first glance it seems tragic but, again, unfortunately, pretty unremarkable in a country with a high murder rate and a large number of armed assaults daily.  But if we look more closely, we have to ask why were there 50 people crowded into a truck that fell into a ravine? Which leads to other questions: why were people using a truck as means of transportation? And why were there so many day laborers traveling? The answers have to do with poverty, lack of safe and reliable transportation, and patterns of landholding and the lack of employment opportunities. People who have adequate land to support their families don't go to work as day laborers. People who have jobs that pay decent salaries don't go work as day laborers. A truck is not a very safe way to get around. However, there are few alternatives in rural areas. Driving along the highways, I see dozens of pick-up trucks whose beds are crowded with 10, 15 or more people, including women with infants strapped across their backs. I don't think most people in rural areas spend a lot of time thinking about safety. There are few means of getting around, and if the alternative to climbing into the bed of a truck that might be old, creaky, have stripped tires or a corroded axle, is waiting on the side of a highway for a bus that might not come (and whose mechanics might be as bad as or worse than that of the pick up), or walking, or not getting to where you need to go, the pick up looks pretty good.

And if you need to get to work, and you don't have enough money to buy a bicycle, or it's too far away to bike, then the calculation is simpler. You need the Q30 or whatever you are getting paid for your day-laborer job, because that will purchase corn and beans and rice and salt to feed yourself and your family.  If you don't get to that back breaking, poorly paid job, no frijolitos for the family. So when that truck comes along belching diesel, you don't think twice about jumping into the back with 49 or 50 other people. You stand, maybe, or if there's room you sit down, squeezing your hips and legs into the small spaces you can find. You pull your baseball cap down, and huddle into the Hollister sweatshirt you bought at a Paca, or maybe a sweatshirt bearing the name of a U.S. sports team that you bought when you were working in los estados, or that a migrant relative brought or sent back. Maybe you munch on an elote (an ear of corn) or warm yourself with a chuchito (a small tamal filled with a spicy sauce and little chunk of chicken or meat), chat with your friends, stare out at the road, or try to catch a nap. You don't really have the luxury of thinking about whether the driver is going to drive safely, whether he is going to start chatting on his cell phone, whether he can maneuver the truck around the curves and slopes, around potholes and landslides. You have even less luxury of considering whether it's too rainy or the roads are too bad to be out on the highway on this or any other day. The roads are awful; this is the rainy season; you live where you live and job is where it is; the truck is what's available, and so off you go.

How the other half lives, laughs with the girls

Last night (Tues Sept 20) I had a chance to observe the haute bourgeoisie of Santa Cruz del Quiche -- not that I even knew that such people existed. I mean, it's logical that there is a local elite, but I hadn't realized how elite they were, not had I seen any of them in action.

My friend Jennifer, who had worked with Ixmukané  until a few weeks ago, and I had been planning to get together at Café Blintz and have coffee. We'd been talking about this for some time and had never gotten around to doing it, and we got in touch a few days ago and made plans to meet tonight after I finished up at the radio station. Yeanet, my colleague from the radio station, decided to meet us, so off we set. I usually go to the café in the morning or afternoon when it is sparsely populated. I've seen a couple of other foreigners there; student-types, usually. Not many.

When we drove down the street, I saw that the small parking lot of the Centro Commercial de los Arcos (The Arches Shopping Center) was crowded with large SUVs. That was unusual. There was no space in the lot and I had to park on the street. The shopping center is tiny; it occupies a corner on the main street entering town from the east. There only seem to be about 3 businesses that are open -- of about 6 storefronts. So it was unusual to see the parking lot overflowing (there was actually a second row of cars crowding the entrance/exit).  As we walked in, I was surprised to see several men standing around on the sidewalk. The shopping center is L-shaped, and at the joint of the L, some men were clustered. I wasn't quite sure who they were or what they were doing, but I found out later. We walked in and saw that there wasn't really space inside: there was one long table in the center and about 6 or 8 well-dressed and well-coiffed non-indigenous women sitting there. They appeared to be "ladies who lunch" types. We decided to sit outside; there was some space inside but it was one small table and we would have been cramped.

I should say that although the women who work behind the counter -- other than the owner and her daughter -- are undoubtedly indigenous (although they wear uniforms and not traje), I have rarely seen women in traje inside as customers, although nearly all my friends in Santa Cruz know about the café, and a few had said they'd been there.

Having secured our table, we ordered (I opted for wine, as it was extremely inexpensive, Q12 for a copa, which is cheaper than any place I've seen, even though it is a small copa) and settled back on our comfortable armchairs on the veranda. Jenny and Yeanet leaned in and told me that the women inside were people with a lot of money, and they pointed to the men we had passed. "Look, those are their bodyguards." Now it made sense that the men were standing around in the shadows. I asked if they knew who the women were. They said they were from the Batres family -- Farmacias Batres is a national chain of pharmacies, and the current patriarch of the family (and heir to the company his father founded), Arturo Batres, was a candidate for congress on the Partido Patriota line.

We watched as the women started to leave. All were wearing expensive and stylish clothes, and a lot of jewelry; all were made up and their hair bore signs of a stylist's touch.  Their shoes were notably: precariously thin stiletto heels, pointed toes, one or two women wore thick platform shoes. Not the best thing for walking on cobblestones. But as the women moved, so did the bodyguards. It seemed that only 2 or 3 of them had body guards; the others got into their own cars and drove off.

I said that I was surprised that they felt they needed so much security, as Santa Cruz is not known for high crime. I asked where the Batres family lived; they said near the plaza, in the building that houses the main branch of the pharmacy. It's not that I didn't think there were wealthy people around, but I just hadn't really seen any up close (I'd seen Arturo at a Partido Patriota event, and at a forum for candidates, and I guess he had some body guards floating around).

We turned our attention back to our food. Yeanet and I were sharing a salad, and the restaurant had brought out small cruets of vinegar and olive oil (with a rosemary branch inside, a nice touch). Jennifer, who is very interested in natural beauty treatments, picked up the olive oil and said, "This is good for your hair " and poured a small amount out on her hands and rubbed it into her hair. We all giggled a bit, and then she rubbed some more into her hands. We talked about the benefits of olive oil and rosemary for the skin and hair. I decided to do the same, looking around to make sure that the waitresses or owner were not watching us.  Then I said that my feet were very dry, and so we put some on our feet. I said that I would have to make sure when I came back the next time that they didn't look at me strangely, and then we all started to laugh, joking about how they might not let us back in again because we used the olive oil. It turned into one of those laughing sessions between where the original reason for laughing disappears and the physical process just takes over and you can't quite stop. Luckily there were only a few other patrons outside and neither they nor anyone else paid us any mind.

Amor loco (o sea, la entrada "mad love" traducido a español)

No, esto no es una entrada de blog designado X ni siquiera R (contenido adulto). Lo siento si les hago ilusiones. Pero me siento profundamente, locamente, apasionadamente enamorado del movimiento de las radios comunitarias. Esta ensoñación fue inspirado por sólo haber recibido una llamada telefónica de una de las personas más dulces que en todo el planeta, Julián Velásquez de Estereo Maya Princess Ixmucané, la estación de radio comunitaria en Momostenango. Me doy cuenta que estoy sonando como un adolescente, pero que así sea. Por lo menos yo no estoy salpicando mis letras "i" con pequeños corazones (estoy seguro de que hay un emoticon para eso, pero por suerte no lo conozco y no tengo tiempo para averiguarlo) y terminando cada frase con múltiples signos de exclamación.

Dentro de la estación en Todos Santos Cuchumatán

Julian acaba de llamar para decir hola, para ver cómo estaba, y mandarme saludos. Hace unos días mi amigo Oswaldo, que trabaja en la emisora ​​de radio La Voz del Pueblo en San Miguel Ixtahuacán, San Marcos, también llamó sólo para decir hola. Estas llamadas me están emocionando, a veces me siento muy aislado aquí en mi casita en mi pequeño pueblo, y estos gestos de atención de mis amigos me acaloran. Además, estos gestos son especialmente significativas ya que casi todos ellos utilizan los teléfonos prepagados, lo que significa que ellos pagan por tiempo de aire cada vez que hacen una llamada, por lo que me llaman significa dedicar los escasos recursos.

Oswaldo (izq) y Noe (der) de La Voz del Pueblo
San Miguel Ixtahuacán, San Marcos

Yo con bastante regularidad chateo a través de Facebook con Oswaldo, Noe (también de La Voz del Pueblo), la gente de Radio Universitaria de San Marcos, y varias de las personas de Radio Ixchel de Sumpango, y más de vez en cuando con la gente de Xob'il Yol en Todos Santos. Todos ellos están profundamente comprometidos con sus comunidades, profundamente comprometidos con la lucha por la libertad de expresión, profundamente comprometidos con los problemas de justicia ambiental y social ... así que, que lo que hay a NO amar? Durante esta temporada electoral, hemos intercambiado información sobre lo que ha estado pasando en nuestras respectivas comunidades, lamentado de los resultados, discutido la política en general, tratado de darse mutuamente algo de aliento.

Nicolasa de Xob'il Yol, Todos Santos
protestando para libertad de expresión

Pero, qué ha sido más importante para mí ha sido sentir como si yo fuera parte de un movimiento, y una comunidad. Varias de las fotos que acompañan a este entrada se tomaron durante una acción frente al Congreso de la República: nos tapamos la boca con las bandas de negro para simbolizar la falta de libertad de expresión, ya que el objetivo era presionar al Congreso a aprobar una ley que otorgaba estatus legal a las radios comunitarias (que actualmente operan fuera de las categorías contenidas en la legislación vigente: muchos de nosotros hacemos un punto de decir que no son ilegales, pero a-legal). Por lo tanto, aquí hay algunos compañeros y compañeras con quien puedo salir a las calles y protestar!Yo ya estoy haciendo planes para volver aquí el año que viene (que ustedes podrían haber visto esto desde una milla de distancia, ¿no?), y para empezar a trabajar en un libro sobre la radio comunitaria (más sobre esto más adelante a medida que la carne de la idea a cabo, sino que se llevará a cabo en colaboración, a la medida de lo posible, con algunas de las principales figuras en el movimiento de radios comunitarias).Además, son todos, cada uno a su manera propia, hermosos seres humanos - generosos, cariñosos, cálidos, deseosos de compartir y con ganas de hacer las conexiones. Tengo muchas ganas de hacer visitas a varias de estas estaciones en los próximos meses, para llevar a cabo algunas entrevistas y algunos observación participante.
Por lo tanto, Oswaldo, Nicolasa, Rosendo, Tino, Anselmo, Angélica, Julián, Noe, Valentín, Mario, Edvin, y otros: te amo profundamente, te amo con locura!

Mad love

Being interviewed by the media
during our protest in front of Congress

No, this is not an X or even and R-rated blog post. Sorry if I got your hopes up. But I am deeply, madly, passionately in love with the community radio movement. This reverie was inspired by just having received a phone call from one of the sweetest people on the entire planet, Julian Velasquez from Estereo Maya Princess Ixmucané, the community radio station in Momostenango.  I realize I am sounding like a teenager, but so be it. At least I'm not dotting my i's with little hearts (I'm sure there's an emoticon for that but thankfully I don't know it and don't have time to figure it out) and ending every sentence with multiple exclamation points.

Inside the station at Todos Santos Cuchumatán

Julian just called to say hello, to see how I was doing, and to wish me well. A few days ago my friend Oswaldo, who works at the radio station La Voz del Pueblo (the people's voice) in San Miguel Ixtahuacán, San Marcos, also called just to say hello. These calls are touching; sometimes I feel very isolated here in my casita (little house) in my little town, and I am warmed by my friends' gestures of caring. Also, these gestures are especially meaningful as nearly all of them use pre-paid phones, which means that they pay for airtime every time they make a call, and so calling me means expending scarce resources.

Oswaldo (l) and Noe (r) from La Voz del Pueblo
San Miguel Ixtahuacán, San Marcos

I fairly regularly chat via Facebook with Oswaldo, Noe (also from La Voz del Pueblo), folks from Radio Universitaria in San Marcos, and several of the people from Radio Ixchel in Sumpango, and more occasionally with the people from Xob'il Yol in Todos Santos. They are all deeply committed to their communities, deeply committed to the fight for freedom of expression, deeply committed to environmental and social justice issues... so what's not to love?  During this electoral season, we have exchanged information about what has been going on in our respective communities, bemoaned the results, discussed politics in general, tried to give each other some encouragement.

Nicolasa from Xob'il Yol (Todos Santos) protesting
for freedom of expression in front of the Congress

But what has been most important to me has been feeling as though I am part of a movement, and a community. Several of the photos that accompany this entry were taken during an action in front of the Congress of the Republic: we covered our mouths with black bands to symbolize the lack of freedom of expression, as the goal was to pressure Congress to pass a law granting legal status to community radio stations (we currently operate outside of the categories contained in existing legislation: many of us make a point of saying that we are not illegal, but a-legal). So, here are some compañeros and compañeras with whom I can go out into the streets and protest!

I am already making plans to come back here next year (you could have seen that one coming a mile away, right?), and to start working on a book about community radio (more about that later as we flesh the idea out; it will be done collaboratively, to the extent possible, with some of the leading figures in the community radio movement).  Additionally, they are all, each in his or her own way, beautiful human beings -- generous, caring, warm, eager to share and eager to make connections.  I am looking forward to making visits to several of these stations in the next months, to conduct some interviews and some participant observation.

So, Oswaldo, Nicolasa, Rosendo, Tino, Anselmo, Angelica, Julian, Noe, Valentín, Mario, Edvin, and others: love you deeply, love you madly!

Can't get enough of that funky election stuff

Yankee great Yogi Berra famously said, "It ain't over until it's over." And so seems to be the case with the Guatemalan elections. I think most people across the political spectrum knew or thought that the presidential race would involve a second round, but perhaps we were not all prepared for the number of "second round" races at the mayoral level.  In my small town, the current mayor, who ran for re-election, is with the "official party" -- UNE (that is, the party of the current president, Alvaro Colóm). Because there was some dispute about the vote count, and supporters of another party burned some of the ballots, rumor had it that there was going to be a run-off.

In the national newspapers this week, there were reports that about 20 municipalities were going to repeat their mayoral contests, but the paper specifically noted that Chinique was not going to have a run-off. According to the published report, since only 6 of 14 ballot boxes had been destroyed, that meant that over 60% of the ballots had been counted and so the TSE determined that the results were valid.

However, this morning, I talked to my friend Caterino, who had been a poll watcher, and has also been a lifelong resident of Chinique, and he told me that there was going to be a run-off. So I will wait and see.  I've heard differing opinions about the current mayor.  A friend from the Maya community in the U.S. insists that he is a leftist and a good guy. Caterino and some others who live hear think that he is not a bad guy but has done absolutely nothing -- nothing bad, necessarily, but nothing good either. An acquaintance who is a supporter of the Partido Patriota (yeah, I know some people who support the Evil Empire, but I have not gotten into deep political conversations with them. I have indicated that my sympathies are elsewhere but I have not wanted to close off conversations with them.) says that the problem with the election results was that the mayor bought votes, and that he also brought people in who were not residents of the municipality to vote (the latter charge was one that we heard from the Frente Amplio poll watchers in Zacualpa, where I think the current mayor is also with UNE).  The women in the women's associations of the surrounding communities think that he has not fulfilled his promises to do something for women in the municipality, and I can testify that he was certainly unwilling to meet with the the women, the two times I accompanied them to his office. He was either "in a meeting" or "out of the office" (even though there is only one entrance and he had been seen entering but not leaving the municipal building; we joked that maybe he had climbed out a window). Another time when the women went, they reported that his secretary had said he was performing a wedding.

So, perhaps not the most effective elected official. And we will see what the outcome of the next round will be.

Meanwhile, Donña Matilde told me she had gone to Zacualpa yesterday, where there had been more extreme electoral violence as people were very unhappy with the outcome of the elections. She said that  the army was patrolling the streets to keep the calm; I commented that it seemed like they had instituted a mini state of siege (there was a state of siege in Alta Verapaz for the first several months I was here, and as part of our security briefing from the Embassy -- an obligatory part of our Fulbright commitment -- they warned us against traveling there; and in May, after the massacre of 27 farmworkers on a finca in the Petén, the president declared a state of siege there also).

Cleaning house/Limpiando la casa

Over the past several months, I have started a number of entries about what seemed, at the time, to be important events, but between one thing and another, I never finished them. I am going to try and finish them and post them; I think they will be out of order -- that is, entries about something that took place in July or August will have a September date, but hopefully this will not be be too confusing. I'd appreciate it if you let me know if you'd prefer me to try and "date" them so that the dates on the blog are closer to the date that the event described actually took place.


Durante los meses pasado, he comenzado unas cuantas entradas sobre lo que parecieron, en el momento, eventos importantes, pero entre una cosa y el otro, nunca las terminé. Voy a intentar a terminar y publicarlas; creo que van a aparecer fuera de orden -- o sea, entradas sobre algo que ocurrió en julio o agosto van a tener una fecha de publicación en septiembre, pero espero que no será muy confuso para ustedes. Agradezco si me dejan saber si prefieren que trato de poner fechas para que las fechas en el blog son más cercanas a la fecha cuando el evento realmente se llevó a cabo.

Beauty queens and the politics of traje (2): the Rabin Ajaw

This series of entries was prompted by a conversation I had with some Maya women friends over dinner. One of them, Laura, had told me about attending the "reina indígena" (indigenous queen) selection in Xela. After briefly discussing the pageant that she had witnessed, she asked if I had heard about the controversy surrounding the Miss Universe pageant and the Guatemalan entry. I said I hadn't, and she explained that Miss Guatemala was going to appear at the Miss Universe pageant wearing ceremonial men's traje from Chichicastenango. In order to explain why this is so controversial and upsetting, I am writing a series of blogs about beauty queens and indigenous queens in Guatemala.  While I do not consider myself to be any kind of expert on the subject, this has become one of the pieces of my ever-evolving research, and since I spend a lot of time with Maya women, I will try to include some of their thoughts as well.
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One of the ongoing controversies among Mayanists and Maya activists is the representation of Maya women and the way that Maya culture, and more specifically women's garments, are used, appropriated and represented.  Many are concerned, and upset about what they see as "folkloricism" -- the treatment of Maya culture and Maya people as quaint curiosities, or museum relics,  whose culture can just be grabbed piecemeal, pulled out of context, and used for political, tourist or other purposes. In Cuba, I found that the term "folklore" was often used in a positive or at least a neutral way by people who were not academics or government functionaries, to describe their very vibrant cultural and religious practices, but here "folklore" generally has a negative vibe. Maya do not want be seen as "folkloric" nor do they want others misrepresenting their culture. When someone here uses the term "folclorismo" (folkloricism), they give it a critical edge. 

Young girl wearing a variant of the
Coban huipil

When I posted something on my Facebook page about Miss Guatemala and her use of ceremonial traje from Chichicastenango, a Maya friend quickly responded, "That's folkloricism." There has been some criticism by Maya women's organizations, for example, about non-Maya female candidates for elected office dressing in huipiles (or güipiles), a term referring to Maya women's tunics or blouses, usually hand woven. Sometimes people draw distinctions between what they consider to be huipiles - hand woven garments, usually somewhat loose-fitting, and often with elaborate woven patterns or embroidery-- and "blusas" (blouses), which are sewn from store-bought, machine-produced fabric, with puffed sleeves that end in a 1-3" wide band that falls somewhere between the bicep and the elbow. In Coban, for example, I saw a lot of women wearing "blusas"; they were cut in the same shape as the more traditional huipiles from Coban, but made of semi-sheer and lacy fabrics, so that you need to wear a camisole or sleeveless top underneath, or just a really nice brassiere if you are more daring.

I am not sure how I learned about the Rabin Ajaw ("daughter of the king" is one translation) pageant. I might have just been doing an internet search on indigenous queens, prompted by some reading I had done over the last several months, and come across a listing for the festival. 

It is described on the official website as a "national folkloric festival" that has been held for the last 40-odd years in the city of Cobán in Alta Verapaz, the department that is immediately to the east of Quiché -- it is in the northeastern part of the country.  I decided that I wanted to attend, and tried to figure out what were the key events and how to manage the trip there and back, sandwiched between other responsibilities at the radio station.


So, with not much in the way of preparation beyond having read a few articles or book chapters about indigenous queen/princess pageants, and some newspaper articles about the Rabin Ajaw selection, I set off for Cobán on the 31st of July.  I had little idea of what the travel conditions would be like and only the vaguest advice from friends; most of the people I know do not drive or own cars, and while some travel fairly regularly, they mostly do so on public transportation.  


I had traveled along the highway as far as Cunén,  a town to the northeast of Santa Cruz del Quiché, but that was the limit of my exploration. I felt a bit like Bilbo Baggins setting off with a vaguely drawn map of Middle Earth with a lot of unknown spaces.  
   
Writing about the Guatemalan countryside leaves me feeling as though I repeat myself -- breathtakingly, painfully, beautiful. The journey to Cobán goes along a river valley, and the landscape is striking. Every time I travel I fall in love with a new part of the country, and yet I find it hard to define the physical qualities that distinguish one area from another. 


I passed through Cunén, then Uspantán and Chicamán... and then the pavement stopped and the road turned to gravel and dirt. And stayed that way for a good 20 or more kilometers to the east of Chicaman, the last town in Quiché.  The road wound through small villages where the passage of my truck seemed to be the most novel thing that had happened in the last week.  There was one stretch where the road was closed, and I had to detour through a private community. The narrow winding gravel and dirt road wound down partway into a deep canyon. One stretch, more level, at the top, was sheer rocks, with a stream running through. Kind of eerie. The only people I saw were the ones tending the two gates at the entrance and exit (they charged a small fee for both entering and leaving). 

I finally arrived in Cobán and immediately liked the city. It was hard to tell why, other than it seemed to have a kind of energy about it. I'm not sure of the population, but it just felt good to be there. Santa Cruz is somewhat dusty and narrow; it feels very hemmed in, as does Chichicastenango. Coban, on the other hand, feels more expansive and relaxed.  It took me a little while to find the hotel, mostly because the people there couldn't give me easy directions although it turned out I was only a few blocks away; they sent someone on a bicycle to come find me and guide me there.  I parked my car, dropped my bags, and then set  off to find where the Rabin Ajaw selection was taking place.

Following the directions I had been given, I made my way to the municipal stadium and saw that on one side, up past the bleachers, there was a building where it looked like there was something going on. I climbed up and found the hall thronged with people. Most, it seemed, were contestants and their families or attendants. At the front was a low platform and on one side, a table where the judges (or selection committee) sat; about half a dozen women, mostly hunched over laptop computers. On the other side (my right hand side as I faced the front) was the sound system, the announcers, and some cameras.  Outside on the balcony, was a marimba, and behind it,  two musicians, playing a large drum and a wooden flute, both traditional instruments. 

There were numerous rows of white plastic chairs, with an aisle down the center. In the first several rows were the contestants: young women from 90 different municipalities, all dressed in the appropriate traje tipico for their respective areas. I later learned that they ranged in age from 15 to 24 or 25.  I positioned myself up near the front along the right hand side, with some other photographers. In front of the stage, a fairly sizeable amount of floor space had been left before the first row of chairs. 


The announcers were calling out the candidates by number - I think we were somewhere in the 60s. The announcer said the name, age, the parents' names and the place of origin; also what language the woman spoke. There was a young woman who stood at the front, wearing the traje of Coban -- a loose white huipil over a gathered skirt of blue and white fabric, her hair tied back with a long, thin piece of red fabric fashioned into an elaborate, drooping bow that reached down past her knees in the back -- bearing a brazier full of incense, who greeted each contestant as she came forward.

Some of the women carried objects that represented their municipality, or that represented Maya culture more generally. One contestant carried a miniature marimba. Some carried baskets. Others carried huge lit candles that were nearly half their height, along with large bunches of flowers.Each contestant made a bow of greeting to the judges, and then whatever kind of salute she wanted to do; some bowed to the four cardinal points. A few knelt and lifted their arms skyward. Then the contestant ascended the stage and had a few minutes to introduce herself and present her "message" -- a prepared statement in both her native language and Spanish.  

The young women were, with very few exceptions, forceful, articulate and thoughtful. I did not take notes on the exact content of each contestant's comments, but they spoke eloquently and passionately about the Maya cosmovision, about environmental issues, taking care of mother earth, about the ravages of mining, education, women's rights, cultural preservation, and the importance of maintaining Maya languages. Only one girl (she was 15, so I think I can safely call her a girl) lost her composure, froze, and lost her place in her statement. Although she received warm and encouraging applause from everyone, was unable to regain her place in her memorized remarks.  

After leaving the stage, the contestants went off to have their photographs taken by a few different professional photographers, including one man who had an impressive-looking vintage camera. I later discovered, through an article in the Huffington Post that a friend posted on Facebook, that he had acquired the camera in Afghanistan; there is a website where he published many of the photographs he took. I was trying to be respectful and stay out of his and the other photographers' way, so I didn't speak to him. Unfortunate, in retrospect.

After each of the contestants had been called forward, spoken and been photographed, the announcers said that the event was over for the evening (it might have been around 7:00, possibly a little later), and that they would reconvene the following day at another location nearby. I made my way around the hall, looking for the entrants  from El Quiché -- they were grouped together by department, so once I had located one of the very distinctive trajes from the department, I found the entire group. I did not know any of them, but I went over to greet them nonetheless. I introduced myself as an anthropologist who was living in El Quiché, said that I was glad to have found the women from my part of the country, and wished them all luck.

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