Day 7
2/23
I’m up at 5:45 a.m. for some reason. The alarm goes off a little later at 6:00 a.m. We hit the snooze until 6:30 a.m. My bed has been actually pretty comfortable the last two nights. Our neighbor, el Gallo, the rooster, doesn’t usually crow until about 5:30 a.m. Another rooster a block or so away beats him to it by an hour. We have warm showers today. Yay!
It’s cold outside this morning. Probably about fifty degrees. With jackets on, I see steamed breath as we board the van for our final meal at El Rancho after check out. The restaurant serves scrambled eggs mixed with onions and peppers, like an omelet. I finally have some Guatemalan coffee as we’re eating outside and it’s chilly. With some unbleached sugar, a natural light brown, the coffee is really good. They don’t serve it piping hot, which is nice. Nothing is in the extreme here in Guatemala like in America. No piping hot coffee or ice cold milk. It’s just cold or hot, nothing more. I like that. The juice is good too. It tastes like Tang.
After breakfast, we head back toward Chichicastenango to the Hotel Casa Del Rey, where we were before this leg of the journey. It’s a long ride. Along the way we will make a delivery to Panajxit School. As we head down into the valleys, the cooler morning air makes for a beautiful cloudfall in the lower areas, with the higher mountain peaks breaking through above the white mist. We take a bathroom break in Sacapulas, where we had stopped before on the way out. It’s market day today, so the square is fuller than it was the last time. The smell of onions, dried fish and other spices floats on the breeze. I look for the merchant from whom I bought the last jersey but can’t find him in the crowd. I find a lady selling jerseys under one of the red tarps deeper in the market. I buy a 7Up soccer jersey for Sam, but when I look at it later, it looks dirty and cheap. I take it back and pay Q10 more for a nicer Coca-Cola jersey. I’m surprised what I can communicate with my limited Spanish.
I use the public bathroom and pay the attendant Q1 as he hands me a paper towel prior to entering. The stalls and primitive sink sure have character—along with a distinct smell.
Back in the vans, we travel through the rest of mountains in the region and take another bathroom break in the capital city of the department Quiche. It’s called Santa Cruz del Quiche. Our stop has a dual purpose. Bathroom seekers walk with Jeff to Pollo Ranchero, a fast food chicken restaurant whose chain actually has a few restaurants in the southern U.S. The rest of us can look around the town square or stay in the vans. I ask Don and Rita Griffin if they want to check out the church. I joke that I’ll be their security. I know that our entire group splitting up and walking around town has to be a logistical nightmare for our four security guys.
The church is tall but nondescript on the outside. Inside, it’s really beautifully lit with candles at offering sites, alcoves, and the altar, which is stretched way out beyond us. There is a neat display to the side behind barred glass. It’s full of icons and a bust of Jesus. I light a candle under a picture of the Virgin Mary and say a prayer to my mother and Becky’s dad, thanking them up in Heaven for keeping everyone safe on this trip and looking out for me. I ask them to help me have this trip mean something to me and for me to help carry on COED’s message.
Don asks me to walk with Rita as he seeks el Bano. We watch a man in the square with a circle of people around him as he preaches about something with a snake around his neck. He puts it in a bag, then puts a cigarette in the “mouth” of a small kerchief “voodoo” doll and pours a circle of water around himself. It’s getting weird but going nowhere. We walk on and hang out near the van. A little boy approaches me and asks something about a pistole. I think he’s asking me about our security guys. They wear their guns concealed and don’t have uniforms, only black ball caps naming their security company.
We’re soon underway and stop at this remote field near a small farmhouse. It’s box lunches again in the shade of a line of trees along a grassy hump that separates two fields basking in the sun. The weather is back to being 75 degrees and sunny. Along the walk to our lunch spot, we avoid stepping in cow patties, popo de vaca, and we see a clean, cute black and white calf wandering around the field. The “General,” our security chief, Jose, who was actually a Colonel in the military before, catches the calf by the tail. The two of us pose for a picture with it.
The box lunches are from Pollo Ranchero. The chicken is delicious. I sit in the sun on the hump that runs like a ridge perpendicular to the line of shade trees. Many people don’t want to eat their bread that came in the lunch. There are several skinny dogs hanging around in the field. They probably belong to the farmer next door. There’s one dog, the alpha male, a Rottweiler mix, which is the thickest, and he won’t cross the hump line out of his yard to come to where the bread is being tossed. All the dogs are well behaved. Someone gives up a piece of chicken, and one dog inhales it. We all then start feeding the starving dogs. One dog is all skin and bones and is probably low on the pecking order. The big dog fights it and knocks it down for a piece of bread that we toss their way. After the skinny dog figures out he can get away from the big dog by crossing over the hump, we feed it a lot of food.
The school is not far from here and we “mount up.” It’s set on a wide expanse of flat land, and we hear music welcoming us as soon as we pull off the main road. They also light off Roman candle fireworks for us. We’re a few minutes late, but the schools are never really completely ready on time. They’ve already decorated with signs and pine needles, but some schools would still be rounding up chairs or students, like I’ve mentioned earlier. The chairs are here, and it looks like we’ll be behind the speaker. He’ll talk to the students with his back to us and facing out into the large courtyard where the students will be standing.
There are a lot of mothers here already. The fathers show up gradually. People line up in chairs under the metal roof awning that surrounds three sides of the courtyard. I’m not ready to sit down just yet. I go to the bathroom at the back of the school. There are two wooden outhouses with a concrete stool with a hole in the top and no lid emptying into a dark pit below. Penciled graffiti in my stall says “Te amo _____.” I love (blank).
Several girls out back are fixing their hair, getting ready for the presentations. One walks from the crude sink near the outhouses, cupping water in her hands to wet down her classmate’s hair.
Carolyn J. and I go down the line of mothers sitting, and we introduce ourselves, shaking hands. As the ceremonies begin, this is another school that does not do the National Anthem. John was selected as the speaker and delegation leader for this school, and he gets up to deliver a nice speech following a father of one of the students expressing his words of thanks to us. It still gets me each time a parent expresses how grateful they are for this project.
We are treated to the Dance of the Bull (el Toro). A man climbs under a large papier machet bull with a square metal framework surrounding it on which are strung multiple fireworks. The fuse is lit as he dances around the courtyard and the circle of the dancing children widens. The first few firecrackers are loud and unexpected, but we answer with great applause. Soon, Jeff is out in front of the bull with a red handkerchief “challenging” the bull. His act gets huge laughs as the bull charges. I wonder if this is part of the traditional dance. I hope they don’t think we’re mocking this or not taking it seriously. Mike, Carolyn J. and Robin all take turns waving the bull on with the kerchief. I take the cloth and enter the “bullring” as a prancing Matador might do. The kids crack up, as does the team. As the man underneath the bull comes after me, suddenly the next row of fireworks lets loose. Bam! Bam! Bam! I’m too close for comfort as the burnt “confetti” of the spent fireworks explodes all around me. It’s wild. The bull continues to dance until the top rung with its spectacular spinning firecrackers finishes. Two men come out to signal to the man beneath the bull that it’s finished, and they lift the bull off the other man. We applaud him loudly.
The kids do the traditional dance like we’ve seen before, but each girl is wearing a different huipil from a particular nearby region, including the only town I recognize, Sacapulas. And, as I knew they would, they invite us to dance with them. But, this time, they don’t pick us out of the audience. We have to go to them. I try to look for a student who seems to be enjoying herself and not just going through the motions. The song goes on for a while, so I think of something I can say to the girl. I finally get the hang of saying “huipil.” The exact pronunciation has eluded me all week. I ask her if hers is from Sacapulas. She says no and tells me another city that I can’t remember or pronounce.
“ Me llama Eric, el Matador,” I introduce myself jokingly.
She looks at me and says something I take as “Really? Are you serious?”
I laugh and say no. I ask her name and she tells me but I forget. I forget so many things during these events. Things like people’s names, small towns, important facts or the Spanish equivalent of a word. So many things go on that my brain just gets overwhelmed.
The school’s teacher acting as speaker tells us their girls soccer team is known as the best in the region this year, and we set up a game of women’s soccer. It’s a first for our group. A sporting event for just the ladies. It’s not as vicious as the boys and at a little slower pace.
Two students approach three of us and hand us some leftover thank you letters that didn’t get handed in during the ceremony. During the presentations, if thank you letters are presented, they are gathered up from us by Claudia and later sent to the sponsor of the school. Rather than track down Claudia for these three left over notes, Joe says we can just keep them ourselves. Cool.
I eventually go into a classroom to take a picture and see Howard talking to a group of boys. He introduces me and tells them I’m a police officer. I’m able to tell them a lot more about my job and kids with Howard as my translator. Of course, I bring out the pictures. Howard takes a cell phone call as I decide it would be all right to hand out my business cards to these boys since we have a connection. They’re really interested in the card, but I can’t tell them what it says in Spanish. I wait for Howard to get off the phone. I wait a long time. I feel awkward just standing there, trying to communicate to them that I will eventually get Howard to translate for me. After a while, he gets off the phone and bails me out. He takes a picture of me with them on my camera, and I have them write all their names down: Santos Valeriano, Larenzo Lian Zapeta, Edvid Geovani Lool Zacarias, Mario David Lool Zacarias, Lorenzo Morales Alvarado, Edgar Bonifacio Rojas, Walter Venancio Zacarias, Carlos Victor Morales and Josue, who doesn’t offer his middle or last names.
I talk to some of the fathers out by the courtyard. Not really talk, I guess, but I show them pictures. I meet the dad who gave the speech.
“Muy bien,” I tell him as I introduce myself. His name is Pedro.
Inevitably, it is time to leave again, and the kids and their families line up at the gate to watch us leave. It’s a nice send off. We arrive at the familiar surroundings of Hotel Casa del Rey and get the same rooms as before. I go to the bar for a Gallo and have to wait through several orders for the bartender to get change from the front desk. I use the team cell phone to call home and leave a message.
The team has an optional meeting in the lobby to reflect on the week. Tony Stieritz, Jess’ husband, hosts it. About six elect not to attend. I’m eager to contribute my thoughts at this meeting, especially after Don buys me another beer. Some people choke up as they recount meaningful moments, and I almost do. It’s great to see how this trip has affected everyone and how everyone is rallying not to forget what he or she has seen and to help in the future.
I talk to Dick and Bert at dinner, which consists of mixed vegetables (which I actually eat) and two sausage beef patties. I discover Dick actually knows my brother-in-law, Marc, having worked with him at Proctor and Gamble. Dinner is very good but hardly filling. The cheesecake for desert is very light and different from any I’ve ever tasted before. Delicious.
After dinner, I use the phone again and get Maddie. We have a nice talk, then she hands me off to Becky. Sam is already in bed. He has strep throat. The battery dies suddenly. I call Becky right back quickly and say a fast goodbye and make sure to tell her I love her before the phone dies again. I have to remember to tell her next time that the boys at the last school saw her picture and said she was pretty.
John, Diana and I all buy the same map of Guatemala in the lobby, and then I go back to the room to write by candlelight. Lights out at 11:15 p.m. on day 7 in Guatemala.
I’m up at 5:45 a.m. for some reason. The alarm goes off a little later at 6:00 a.m. We hit the snooze until 6:30 a.m. My bed has been actually pretty comfortable the last two nights. Our neighbor, el Gallo, the rooster, doesn’t usually crow until about 5:30 a.m. Another rooster a block or so away beats him to it by an hour. We have warm showers today. Yay!
It’s cold outside this morning. Probably about fifty degrees. With jackets on, I see steamed breath as we board the van for our final meal at El Rancho after check out. The restaurant serves scrambled eggs mixed with onions and peppers, like an omelet. I finally have some Guatemalan coffee as we’re eating outside and it’s chilly. With some unbleached sugar, a natural light brown, the coffee is really good. They don’t serve it piping hot, which is nice. Nothing is in the extreme here in Guatemala like in America. No piping hot coffee or ice cold milk. It’s just cold or hot, nothing more. I like that. The juice is good too. It tastes like Tang.
After breakfast, we head back toward Chichicastenango to the Hotel Casa Del Rey, where we were before this leg of the journey. It’s a long ride. Along the way we will make a delivery to Panajxit School. As we head down into the valleys, the cooler morning air makes for a beautiful cloudfall in the lower areas, with the higher mountain peaks breaking through above the white mist. We take a bathroom break in Sacapulas, where we had stopped before on the way out. It’s market day today, so the square is fuller than it was the last time. The smell of onions, dried fish and other spices floats on the breeze. I look for the merchant from whom I bought the last jersey but can’t find him in the crowd. I find a lady selling jerseys under one of the red tarps deeper in the market. I buy a 7Up soccer jersey for Sam, but when I look at it later, it looks dirty and cheap. I take it back and pay Q10 more for a nicer Coca-Cola jersey. I’m surprised what I can communicate with my limited Spanish.
I use the public bathroom and pay the attendant Q1 as he hands me a paper towel prior to entering. The stalls and primitive sink sure have character—along with a distinct smell.
Back in the vans, we travel through the rest of mountains in the region and take another bathroom break in the capital city of the department Quiche. It’s called Santa Cruz del Quiche. Our stop has a dual purpose. Bathroom seekers walk with Jeff to Pollo Ranchero, a fast food chicken restaurant whose chain actually has a few restaurants in the southern U.S. The rest of us can look around the town square or stay in the vans. I ask Don and Rita Griffin if they want to check out the church. I joke that I’ll be their security. I know that our entire group splitting up and walking around town has to be a logistical nightmare for our four security guys.
The church is tall but nondescript on the outside. Inside, it’s really beautifully lit with candles at offering sites, alcoves, and the altar, which is stretched way out beyond us. There is a neat display to the side behind barred glass. It’s full of icons and a bust of Jesus. I light a candle under a picture of the Virgin Mary and say a prayer to my mother and Becky’s dad, thanking them up in Heaven for keeping everyone safe on this trip and looking out for me. I ask them to help me have this trip mean something to me and for me to help carry on COED’s message.
Don asks me to walk with Rita as he seeks el Bano. We watch a man in the square with a circle of people around him as he preaches about something with a snake around his neck. He puts it in a bag, then puts a cigarette in the “mouth” of a small kerchief “voodoo” doll and pours a circle of water around himself. It’s getting weird but going nowhere. We walk on and hang out near the van. A little boy approaches me and asks something about a pistole. I think he’s asking me about our security guys. They wear their guns concealed and don’t have uniforms, only black ball caps naming their security company.
We’re soon underway and stop at this remote field near a small farmhouse. It’s box lunches again in the shade of a line of trees along a grassy hump that separates two fields basking in the sun. The weather is back to being 75 degrees and sunny. Along the walk to our lunch spot, we avoid stepping in cow patties, popo de vaca, and we see a clean, cute black and white calf wandering around the field. The “General,” our security chief, Jose, who was actually a Colonel in the military before, catches the calf by the tail. The two of us pose for a picture with it.
The box lunches are from Pollo Ranchero. The chicken is delicious. I sit in the sun on the hump that runs like a ridge perpendicular to the line of shade trees. Many people don’t want to eat their bread that came in the lunch. There are several skinny dogs hanging around in the field. They probably belong to the farmer next door. There’s one dog, the alpha male, a Rottweiler mix, which is the thickest, and he won’t cross the hump line out of his yard to come to where the bread is being tossed. All the dogs are well behaved. Someone gives up a piece of chicken, and one dog inhales it. We all then start feeding the starving dogs. One dog is all skin and bones and is probably low on the pecking order. The big dog fights it and knocks it down for a piece of bread that we toss their way. After the skinny dog figures out he can get away from the big dog by crossing over the hump, we feed it a lot of food.
The school is not far from here and we “mount up.” It’s set on a wide expanse of flat land, and we hear music welcoming us as soon as we pull off the main road. They also light off Roman candle fireworks for us. We’re a few minutes late, but the schools are never really completely ready on time. They’ve already decorated with signs and pine needles, but some schools would still be rounding up chairs or students, like I’ve mentioned earlier. The chairs are here, and it looks like we’ll be behind the speaker. He’ll talk to the students with his back to us and facing out into the large courtyard where the students will be standing.
There are a lot of mothers here already. The fathers show up gradually. People line up in chairs under the metal roof awning that surrounds three sides of the courtyard. I’m not ready to sit down just yet. I go to the bathroom at the back of the school. There are two wooden outhouses with a concrete stool with a hole in the top and no lid emptying into a dark pit below. Penciled graffiti in my stall says “Te amo _____.” I love (blank).
Several girls out back are fixing their hair, getting ready for the presentations. One walks from the crude sink near the outhouses, cupping water in her hands to wet down her classmate’s hair.
Carolyn J. and I go down the line of mothers sitting, and we introduce ourselves, shaking hands. As the ceremonies begin, this is another school that does not do the National Anthem. John was selected as the speaker and delegation leader for this school, and he gets up to deliver a nice speech following a father of one of the students expressing his words of thanks to us. It still gets me each time a parent expresses how grateful they are for this project.
We are treated to the Dance of the Bull (el Toro). A man climbs under a large papier machet bull with a square metal framework surrounding it on which are strung multiple fireworks. The fuse is lit as he dances around the courtyard and the circle of the dancing children widens. The first few firecrackers are loud and unexpected, but we answer with great applause. Soon, Jeff is out in front of the bull with a red handkerchief “challenging” the bull. His act gets huge laughs as the bull charges. I wonder if this is part of the traditional dance. I hope they don’t think we’re mocking this or not taking it seriously. Mike, Carolyn J. and Robin all take turns waving the bull on with the kerchief. I take the cloth and enter the “bullring” as a prancing Matador might do. The kids crack up, as does the team. As the man underneath the bull comes after me, suddenly the next row of fireworks lets loose. Bam! Bam! Bam! I’m too close for comfort as the burnt “confetti” of the spent fireworks explodes all around me. It’s wild. The bull continues to dance until the top rung with its spectacular spinning firecrackers finishes. Two men come out to signal to the man beneath the bull that it’s finished, and they lift the bull off the other man. We applaud him loudly.
The kids do the traditional dance like we’ve seen before, but each girl is wearing a different huipil from a particular nearby region, including the only town I recognize, Sacapulas. And, as I knew they would, they invite us to dance with them. But, this time, they don’t pick us out of the audience. We have to go to them. I try to look for a student who seems to be enjoying herself and not just going through the motions. The song goes on for a while, so I think of something I can say to the girl. I finally get the hang of saying “huipil.” The exact pronunciation has eluded me all week. I ask her if hers is from Sacapulas. She says no and tells me another city that I can’t remember or pronounce.
“ Me llama Eric, el Matador,” I introduce myself jokingly.
She looks at me and says something I take as “Really? Are you serious?”
I laugh and say no. I ask her name and she tells me but I forget. I forget so many things during these events. Things like people’s names, small towns, important facts or the Spanish equivalent of a word. So many things go on that my brain just gets overwhelmed.
The school’s teacher acting as speaker tells us their girls soccer team is known as the best in the region this year, and we set up a game of women’s soccer. It’s a first for our group. A sporting event for just the ladies. It’s not as vicious as the boys and at a little slower pace.
Two students approach three of us and hand us some leftover thank you letters that didn’t get handed in during the ceremony. During the presentations, if thank you letters are presented, they are gathered up from us by Claudia and later sent to the sponsor of the school. Rather than track down Claudia for these three left over notes, Joe says we can just keep them ourselves. Cool.
I eventually go into a classroom to take a picture and see Howard talking to a group of boys. He introduces me and tells them I’m a police officer. I’m able to tell them a lot more about my job and kids with Howard as my translator. Of course, I bring out the pictures. Howard takes a cell phone call as I decide it would be all right to hand out my business cards to these boys since we have a connection. They’re really interested in the card, but I can’t tell them what it says in Spanish. I wait for Howard to get off the phone. I wait a long time. I feel awkward just standing there, trying to communicate to them that I will eventually get Howard to translate for me. After a while, he gets off the phone and bails me out. He takes a picture of me with them on my camera, and I have them write all their names down: Santos Valeriano, Larenzo Lian Zapeta, Edvid Geovani Lool Zacarias, Mario David Lool Zacarias, Lorenzo Morales Alvarado, Edgar Bonifacio Rojas, Walter Venancio Zacarias, Carlos Victor Morales and Josue, who doesn’t offer his middle or last names.
I talk to some of the fathers out by the courtyard. Not really talk, I guess, but I show them pictures. I meet the dad who gave the speech.
“Muy bien,” I tell him as I introduce myself. His name is Pedro.
Inevitably, it is time to leave again, and the kids and their families line up at the gate to watch us leave. It’s a nice send off. We arrive at the familiar surroundings of Hotel Casa del Rey and get the same rooms as before. I go to the bar for a Gallo and have to wait through several orders for the bartender to get change from the front desk. I use the team cell phone to call home and leave a message.
The team has an optional meeting in the lobby to reflect on the week. Tony Stieritz, Jess’ husband, hosts it. About six elect not to attend. I’m eager to contribute my thoughts at this meeting, especially after Don buys me another beer. Some people choke up as they recount meaningful moments, and I almost do. It’s great to see how this trip has affected everyone and how everyone is rallying not to forget what he or she has seen and to help in the future.
I talk to Dick and Bert at dinner, which consists of mixed vegetables (which I actually eat) and two sausage beef patties. I discover Dick actually knows my brother-in-law, Marc, having worked with him at Proctor and Gamble. Dinner is very good but hardly filling. The cheesecake for desert is very light and different from any I’ve ever tasted before. Delicious.
After dinner, I use the phone again and get Maddie. We have a nice talk, then she hands me off to Becky. Sam is already in bed. He has strep throat. The battery dies suddenly. I call Becky right back quickly and say a fast goodbye and make sure to tell her I love her before the phone dies again. I have to remember to tell her next time that the boys at the last school saw her picture and said she was pretty.
John, Diana and I all buy the same map of Guatemala in the lobby, and then I go back to the room to write by candlelight. Lights out at 11:15 p.m. on day 7 in Guatemala.
posted by Enforcer @ 7:14 PM
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