Day 5

2/21
I don’t sleep well through the night. I keep thinking something is going to crawl in bed with me. It’s cold outside too. The long PJs do me well. I’m a little late to breakfast since I can’t get my morning routine down with the limited space we have in the bedroom and bathroom. I sit across from the two nurse sisters, Cathy Frank and Rita Diaz, at the first of the few remaining spots at one of the two long tables in the dining room. The orange juice here is freshly squeezed. I’m served two eggs sunny side up, with black beans and toast. Not much, but still good.
Our departure is a little confusing as one school dropped out of the program at the last minute and it messed up who was to do what job and what bus they were getting on. We head out at 7:45 a.m. for the four-hour bus ride to the Nebaj area. At first our bus is too full. I’m the last one on, and I almost get off. I really don’t want to, but I will. Jim volunteers to switch buses, although I didn’t want him to go either.
We go through some very high mountain areas and tight turns. We stop in the town of Sacapulas for a bathroom break. There’s a town square with a church and a market. It’s definitely not a tourist market, nor is it as big as the one in the streets of Santiago. There are two large ceiba trees in the square, their trunks at least ten feet thick. The ceiba trees are sacred to the Guatemalans.
There is a vendor nearby selling soccer jerseys and bike shirts. I try to ask for the Guatemalan team and he shows me a red jersey. I don’t think that’s it. I find a blue and white one that looks like the one from the mall on the first day. He tells me it’s Q65. I point out that it’s dirty and try to ask for another one. He says that’s the only one and ends up only charging me Q50 for it. Soccer Mania at Los Proceres wanted Q585. Theirs was probably better quality.
We take off again and eventually reach altitudes of as high as 8066 feet above sea level according to Howard’s GPS he brings along and I get to play with. On the way up to that height, we zigzag up the roads and can look down on the valley where Sacapulas sits. I can see its tiny little buildings and streets way down there below us.
Our group stops on a deserted hillside overlooking another valley to sit and eat boxed lunches. We get to the edge of the hill by walking along a livestock trail. It’s a beautiful view. A farmer’s house sits in the valley at the base of our hill, and it seems like we can see the “whole world” beyond to our left. The house is fairly primitive but not trashy or pieced together like we’ve seen in some of the cities.
Atop the hill, a group of children lingers to watch us. Someone had the idea yesterday to give a few leftover apples in our lunches to a few of the locals at the ruins. I collect today’s uneaten nectarines and trek up the hill to meet the kids, all boys about eight years old. They laugh and run away a short distance as I get closer. I walk a little farther. They do it again.
“Fruta,” I call out. Fruit. “Aqui.” Here.
They won’t come to me, so I set the bag of fruit down and wave. I turn and walk back down the hill to the rest of the team sitting and relaxing in the field. I watch as the boys rush over and snatch up the fruit, chattering the whole time.
I don’t hear any words of thanks directed toward me, but that’s OK. A man brings over a little boy, no more than three years old, and sits near us in the shade. One of our security officers goes over to talk with him. An even older man brings by a two-year-old girl, and we give them one of the boxed lunches. He bows and smiles.
“Muchas Gracias,” he tells us.
When lunch is over, we drive one minute up the road to some bathrooms, which happen to be in the school, Chiul, which was the one that just dropped out of the program. It felt awkward to me to be there, wondering how much the kids knew about us almost coming there to deliver much needed textbooks. It’s explained to us that one of the parents raised some last minute concerns and cast doubt in the minds of school personnel. COED could easily have explained away their unfounded doubts, but their philosophy is not to push their agenda on the schools. Instituting the book program must feel completely voluntary on the school’s part.
Our two vans go separate ways. I’m headed to Metodista Ixil. Once we arrive, we find the school is not really ready for us. I’ve made the same observation at each school so far. They all still have to set up. It’s true they already have posters and signs posted welcoming us, but they have to work at putting up a large tarp over the courtyard and setting out chairs, or in the case today, school desks. As we pull up, a woman is flinging buckets of water on the dirt courtyard and playground area to keep the dust down. The students sit in the same rows of desks as we do. I watch everything going on around us, and I’m one of the last of our team to sit down. Some girl students, dressed in the huipils and blouses, sit next to me in the open seats. A parent and her little baby are in front of me. The baby keeps looking at me and drooling, and I get him to smile at me.
Included in this presentation is a father who expresses his thanks both in Spanish and his native Mayan language, Ixil. A group of boys with a drum, guerro and recorders perform a melody called “The Carnival.” They do a good job too. Then, there are problems with the CD player for the next act, featuring four girls dressed in black with their faces painted white. After a working boom box is discovered, the CD is apparently lost, so they’re unable to perform. Another girl comes out and sings along to a contemporary song. The girl who walked the flag out, Anna is her name, dances to a Latin pop song. The girls’ school uniforms look like something out of a Britney Spears video—the knee-high socks, plaid skirt, V-neck collar shirt and sweater.
The school challenges us to a soccer game. Our best five against their best five. So, it’s me, George, Diana, Nick K., in his flip-flops, with John as keeper. We play on the concrete basketball court. Our team scores the first goal, and then we let them score their first. They win 3 to 1. Those boys sure could dance with that ball. We’re all sweaty and tired. It has to be the higher altitude.
I can’t find any kids to easily approach and talk to. One of our team members points me out to a few girls and tells them I’m a police officer. That gets their attention. I now have an opening and show them my pictures. They help me out with some pronunciation as I ad lib. They tell me I have a beautiful wife and home. One of the girls asks me how to say her name in English. Catarina, Catherine. Then the others ask as well. Maria, Mary (that was an easy one). Esther, Esther (another easy one). That “translation” gets some giggles. A girl named Magdalena joins in later, and I tell her my daughter’s name is Madeline, which is her name in English. Two boys show up and I ask their names. Henry and Thomas. I tell Thomas that his name is my middle name. I shake the girls’ hands to thank them and tell them “Mucho gusto.” I keep making them laugh because I keep confusing their names. I get them all matched up on the third try. Robin takes a picture of us. I give them my business cards for being such good sports.
It’s time to leave, and I’m suddenly exhausted upon reaching the bus. The kids all wave to us from the fence line as we drive off. We go to the other school, Vicotz, where the other half of our group is assigned and wait for them to finish up so we can all head to the hotel together. I get a quick picture of the outside of the school.
After a few minutes, both vans are off to the town of Nebaj. It’s explained to us that anyone who was asked to stack his or her luggage in the back of the lobby prior to departing from Hotel Casa del Rey this morning will be staying at a different hotel. That would be me, John, Diana, Carolyn Johnson, Robin, Jim, Mike, both Nicks, and Colin and Kathleen Combs. The COED staff says they picked people they thought would do well in a hotel with lesser accommodations since there weren’t enough rooms in the other hotel in town. I’m fine with that.
We pull up to the Hotel Ilebam, and an armed guard opens a sliding gate to allow the van into the inner parking area. My first impression is that it looks small and trashy. But it proves to be cozy with a small cobblestone courtyard with four thatched roof umbrella stands and tables. The two story L-shaped hotel looks down on the courtyard and beyond into the town.
The room for John and me is on the second floor and the same size as the previous hotel room, but there’s only one knob in the bathroom sink. The water comes out in one temperature—cold. The light is a bare bulb in the ceiling. There are two differently colored towels and 2 wrapped bars of soap. There’s a 12” TV on a wall mount, and the remote is given to us with the room key.
I walk deeper into the town with Robin, Mike, Jim and Nick U. This town is not a tourist town, but that’s OK. It’s more rustic and authentic that way. We pass a library that isn’t much, but after we start talking with him, the guy working there is interested in what COED strives to accomplish. His library is built right in line with the rest of the businesses and shops in a limited space. It’s kept clean. His name, I believe, is Florian, and he’s from Germany. I trade small talk with him in German.
We find the town square and the church, which is beautiful inside. Outside, a woman tries to sell her weavings and asks about us. We reply the best we can but don’t buy anything.
A man sits down on the steps of the church next to us and asks, “Dos Quetzales?”
We see Nick K. on the phone by the Municipal building off the main square. Mike crosses the street and pretends to pickpocket him. Nick shouts and grabs him. They both laugh after the joke is up. What they don’t know is that there were police officers standing right down the sidewalk who saw the whole thing. Mike tells them he’s sorry, and they laugh.
We find a bar that is connected to an Internet Café, which is a big thing down here. There is restaurant style seating on the second floor of the bar and an open roof above that. There are old wooden chairs set up in order to have a drink up top.
The clouds are growing thick and turning a rich gray. They cling to the tops of the mountains surrounding the town. It’s now about 6 o’clock. It looks fairly dilapidated atop the other buildings throughout the city as well. I find a Q5 bill on the ground up here. Cool! Then I realize it’s like only sixty cents.
We walk back to the other hotel, the one we didn’t get in, the Hotel Villa Nebaj. There are wall murals and tropical greenery everywhere inside. It’s very nice, so we hear. The older and “more pampered” folks can have that. We load up in the vans as it’s dark now and head out on narrow, dark deserted streets to the outskirts of town to eat at El Rancho. The outside dining area has two long tables, and the floor is thick with pine needles. We have a thin beef slice in a gravy sauce, mashed potatoes purposely served cold, and hot, soft tortillas. I put some hot salsa on one of the tortillas, and it’s a while before I get my drink, a tamarindo. The dinner is good, but not filling.
A few female students from Vicotz who accompanied us to the restaurant to eat with us now offer us special crafts and weavings that they and their families made. Too bad I already have enough. They make a nice head wrap for Kathleen.
As we head back to the hotel, I have an upset stomach. I hope it passes, but if it doesn’t and turns into the next phase, I hope it’s over quickly. I pop a few Tums in my mouth and write in my journal. It’s lights out at 11:05 p.m. on day 5 in Guatemala.