Day 6

2/22
During the night, I finally get “Montezuma’s Revenge” and visit the bathroom several times. I’m not sure if I’m sick or just adjusting to the diet down here. I can’t take the Cipro antibiotics right away because I took Tums earlier. The medication says I have to wait at least six hours after taking a calcium-based antacid. As luck would have it, I wake up at 3 a.m., exactly six hours after taking the Tums, so I take the Cipro.
There’s no more hot water in the hotel by the time John and I are up and take showers in the morning. It’s a little cooler than lukewarm. It makes for a quick shower. We leave in the van at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast at El Rancho, sharing jokes with the others who have been staying at the nicer hotel about how posh their surroundings are as we are living in tents on the mountainside. I joked that their main complaint is that the saunas in their rooms seat only six and not eight. I’m kidding. They don’t have saunas.
El Rancho is easier to get to in the daylight, and they have quicker service this morning. We have old-fashioned scrambled eggs, mashed black beans (which I don’t eat), fried plantains, and a pineapple-melon juice. A good breakfast, but, once again, not filling. I probably ought to be taking an easy on my stomach at this point.
During breakfast, the COED staff collects the room keys from those of us staying in Hotel Ilebal because there is only one set of keys for each room in the whole hotel. So, if we want room service, one of the team leaders will take our keys back to the hotel so that hotel staff can get in our rooms.
We depart for Acul Primary School from breakfast. This will be a different “deal” since COED only works with the secondary schools for their book program. Today we’re delivering gifts of crayons, balls, paper, etc. in exchange for a chance to familiarize the community and students with the program in the hopes it is used when the students reach secondary school. The ride there is not very long, and my stomach is doing fine.
We arrive in the village, which was constructed in 1983 by the military as a relocation center. The structures are newer, but the culture is a few steps behind the older villages. The small children here are excited. We tour their school and step into one of the classrooms. The children all sit at their desks with their notebooks open, having just finished some writing exercises. These youngsters won’t learn Spanish until after the third grade, so they speak the local Ixil Mayan language. After I learn this, I wonder how many of the smaller children actually understood us as we came into town saying “Buenos Tardes” and “Mucho Gusto.”
We have a teacher and an Ixil translator in the room as we ask questions of the children. They tell us how to say hello and thank you. It’s a hard language to grasp. They say a few words in English as well.
We go to the Municipal arena—a large gymnasium-type building with a high roof. Half of the expansive floor is coated with pine needles for our welcome, and a large stage with a Welcome sign over all the gifts awaits us. Two older men play music on a homemade fiddle and guitar at stage left. We are escorted to our seats by the young children, probably no more than four years old. A little girl holds on to my left hand as a little boy takes my right. Our welcome is well organized. A large number of kids pile in behind us as we sit before the stage. We are treated to several dance numbers by students from the various grade levels. The first graders are especially adorable, and the second graders do a cute number to Cuban dance music.
I get particularly moved each time a parent or teacher (besides the main speaker) comes up to give a thank you speech. I feel it is the most genuine. I know the schools appreciate what we do, but they have certain things as a matter of ceremony that they are supposed to say in situations like these. But, when a parent speaks, and we hear how appreciative he and the rest of the parents are, myself as a parent, I get really touched.
As we sit for more of the festivities, some more of the littler children present us with hand-knitted caps that were made by the sixth graders. My hat is red with white designs that look like diamonds, stars or flowers. It’s nice, but I was selfishly hoping for a “cool” pattern, especially for a boy, as I wanted to give the hat to Sam. I tell myself to stop being selfish and just appreciate the gift that was personally given to me.
The line-up for the pens and pencils give-away is orderly, even for this large of a crowd. Some little boys are able to sneak back in line and get more pencils. We are all wearing our hats as we mingle after the ceremony. Some of us look really silly. My pictures are a hit again. I never know how to broach the subject of getting my pictures out. I don’t want to force anyone to look at them. I secretly feel guilty too, like “Hey, look at me. Look how cool I am. You have to see my pictures.” But, ultimately, the kids don’t care. They just like to see different things. Some of them even know to ask of us, “Fotos?”
We leave smiling and waving, no one really wanting to go. I feel there was a lot of good will in this visit. I also feel I’m not doing as much as I should as far as participation is concerned. I have no “official duties” any more as a member of any teams for the remainder of the school visits, but some people get drafted or volunteer to bring in the boxes of books or be extra helpers for handing out the pencils. Plus, I still feel shy and intimidated by the whole language barrier, so it takes me a while to get going. I feel maybe I’m an observer, taking everything in.
Some of us walk up a long hill at the edge of the village. The dirt road leading up is lined with shack-like houses. Glen and Carolyn Chamberlain talk with a family and see them working with a machine in their home that grinds corn for all of the villagers’ daily supply of tortillas. Carolyn gives the tiny boy sitting on his father’s lap outside the house a small stuffed giraffe. He loves it, and the dad is really happy.
At the top of the hill, we can look back down upon the village. It’s a beautiful view. Before walking back down and to the vans, we talk with three well-dressed young men, Carlos, Mike and Chris. They are 18 to 19 years old and teachers at the school. It is great they all aspired to be teachers in the same village in which they grew up.
Our next stop today is not that far away. We visit a Cheese farm, Hacienda San Antonio Queso Chacul Acul. It is set in the middle of a grassy valley, cleared of trees. Cows graze on the steep hillsides. It looks like a scene straight out of “Heidi” or “The Sound of Music,” reminiscent of a chateau in the Swiss Alps. The hotel that is part of the cheese farm is simple but has that old world elegance with a distinct Italian or Swiss feel to it. The cheese farm was actually started by an Italian immigrant some fifty years ago. His grandson runs it now.
We get a crash course in how the cheese is made while touring the various rooms. The cows are fed special herbs in their diet of hay as they’re milked at 4:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. They come into the long stable on their own. Six cows. The collected milk and other ingredients are stirred together in a large cauldron on a swivel beside a large fire. The cauldron is swung over the fire then out again to keep the perfect temperature. The thick “pre-cheese” is lifted out of the mixture with cheesecloth and put into tubes about two feet tall and eight inches in diameter. There are holes all around the sides of the tubes. Large cylindrical rock weights fit down in the tubes to compress the cheese. The expelled liquid runs out of the little holes and off the table. The cheese is soaked in saltwater for 24 hours and then cut into wheels. It’s stored on a shelf in a cool storage area for three to four days before it’s ready.
We have lunch on an outdoor deck overlooking the Italian immigrant’s farm and eat…what else? Pasta! Plus, the ever-present side of beef. It’s a little tough. I also have melon juice and a warm tortilla while we wait for the main course. It’s during this time that I finally learn how tortillas are made. I could have figured it out, but I get the specifics. The ground corn is mixed with water, from the well or the tap, along with ground limestone powder until it reaches a doughy consistency. It’s patted back and forth in the woman’s hands until a cohesive round flat patty is made. She then puts it over a fire in a large flat pan until it is lightly browned. Jeff tells us that in some villages in the morning one can hear muffled clapping coming from inside the many homes, and that’s the women patting the tortilla dough. He also says the act of browning the tortilla slightly supposedly kills any bacteria present in the water. I’m not so sure about that because I’ve had a few tortillas at the various restaurants that were moist in the middle.
After the main meal, we are treated to some of the homemade cheese. It’s delicious and I can’t get enough of the small slices. I’m not a cheese connoisseur, so I’m not sure what kind it is, but it has a white color with a slightly grainy texture. There’s a small bite to its taste.
We head to another school after the Cheese Farm. Tucoral. It’s a large, poorer school with 450 students. COED is piloting a Used Textbook Program with this school to save them money. We arrive under cloudy skies and line the far side of an open courtyard area. The students file in and stand, facing us. They are crammed close together with some space between our two groups for the presentations. The version of the Guatemalan National anthem, already long in its own right at twelve verses, is even longer here as it’s sung slowly in the style of Mariah Carey.
I’m drafted at the last minute, along with Carolyn J., to accept handwritten thank you letters as part of the ceremony. I definitely don’t mind. A student from each grade level brings their class’ letters to us and says a few words of thanks in Spanish.
“Gracias,” I reply as I hold up the letters to show our appreciation.
There are two boys who read and “act out” poems each of them wrote. Very powerful. Of course, there is the usual “Corn Dance.” And, of course, I’m one of the first ones pulled out by an embarrassed student to dance with her. That’s what I get for sitting in the front. Man, this song is long!
Just when I start feeling the soreness in my legs from yesterday’s soccer game, it’s announced we’re playing this school’s best five against our best five. I’m in again although I am, by far, not the best. The boys run circles around us, and I quickly trade positions with Mike to be keeper. I save a few good shots and fake them out with tosses in the opposite direction I’m looking. My daughter would be proud. I soon ask for a sub, and Diana takes my place. She’s a good keeper.
There is cool, hip dance club music being DJ’ed as the game progresses. Joe gets the kids who are lined up around the court to do The Wave, like in the big stadiums. I show pictures again, and the students are really interested in my kids. We have to leave, and the DJ calls the end of the soccer game. Sports definitely get everyone laughing, smiling and involved with each other. It is sad to say goodbye as everyone is still pumped up from the excitement of the game.
I notice that several of the older boys have a “hard” look to them, like they have skeptical attitudes toward us. They probably don’t think it’s cool to look all happy and excited. I guess that’s the same everywhere. A teenager is a teenager.
On the way back to the hotel, I’m getting worried about the picture storage capacity in my camera. I’ve been erasing certain images throughout the day. I have about thirty shots left. Robin offers to let me dump what I have on my memory card onto her storage device. After the trip she could make a CD of the images and send them to me. The only bad thing is that I wouldn’t have my pictures right away upon getting home. Plus, what if something happened to that storage device? I’m a worrywart, I know.
We have chicken at El Rancho tonight and some pastries that taste like hard croissant cookies. Horchata, the white rice drink is served in abundance. I have three glasses full.
We are back at the hotel by 9:30 p.m. and it’s lights out at 10:50 p.m. on day 6 in Guatemala.