Sometimes I think I'm going to die on a chicken bus.
Because these ancient, elaborately-painted American school buses are private, for-profit businesses, their "ayudantes" are extremely motivated to get 'there' as quickly as possible with as many people (or chickens, or geese, or loud and passionate preaching pastors, or men selling bottles of pills...) as can be squished into the bus.
There is nothing quite like speeding around the sharp curves of winding mountain highways and being slammed against the window or into your plump Mayan seatmates for reflecting on a journey.
It took me far longer than I expected to adapt to life in Guatemala, but as my return flight draws closer, I find the thought of leaving bittersweet.
I love it here, right down to death-defying bus rides and the roosters that crow at 3AM.
Sometime during the 2 months that I have spent in Guatemala, San Andres Itzapa became "home".
And because it is home, I have learned to take it for what it is: an average, imperfect, and intriguing Guatemalan pueblo.
I enjoy (or at least tolerate) things here that I wouldn't normally be so fond of, solely because I have an unconditional love for this country.
Because I love Itzapa, even the litter (at home in the States I was once an avid practitioner of the Zero Waste lifestyle)doesn't bother me much; I now barely notice the creeks and fields strewn with empty chip and candy wrappers, and when I do think about them, it is no longer with so much judgment. I look at this, and most every situation, as a fact of life, and part of a larger and longer story consequent of Guatemala's industrialization.
I sometimes give tours to new Maya Pedal volunteers interested in seeing one of the most prominent local garbage-dumping points- a once-beautiful ravine splitting the city. When I look out over the bridge and watch the vultures watching me from eye-level branches, I wonder what will become of this waste and this place.
I love the donkeys packed with firewood coming down the street from the farmland and rural towns above.
I love the long, slow "buenas taaaardes," and the slap-slip-slap of of chapin women making fresh corn tortillas.
I love sleeping on the roof at Maya Pedal, and wrapping myself in layers and blankets, burrito-style , to keep the cold and sounds of late-night explosives at bay. I love getting up in the morning and peering out through the wall of bike rims to watch Itzapa start its day, a blanket of smoky wood-fire-stove haze atop the concrete.
I love shopping at the market, and ducking under the low-hung ropes and sheets that keep the vendors out of the sun while they sell their goods, and makes a game of limbo for my nearly 6' tall self.
I love seeing what ever-changing and always-odd assortment of items will grace the surface of a booth's blanket: firecrackers? a sculpture of the baby Jesus? huge blocks of chalk? grannie panties?, or finding the perfect pineapple, a good deal on papaya, or the last dozen mini-bananas.
I love the sound of my name ("Mee-shell! Que estas haciendo, Mee-shell!")coming from the neighbor's roof, or from a small voice in a doorway, or from waist-height walking past me on the cobbled street. I love getting hugs from little chicas who want to know when we're going to play art school with my crayons next, or if I can spin them around like a helicopter. "Dame vueltas!" they squeal.
I love the bike shop, and I love Maya Pedal.
I love how terrified and proud I feel with the power tools, the most nerve-wracking being the hand-grinder with the spinning blade and and subsequent cascade of hot sparks shooting half-way across the shop. I love the grease that accumulates on my hands, which makes its way to my work apron, my pants, my face, my food... and the occasional battle scars I acquire from doing the wrong thing with the wrong tool. And I love the satisfaction of finally, finally, figuring out how to true a wheel, or overhaul a headset, or weld a piece of bicimaquina.
There are more things I love about Itzapa and Guatemala than can be listed, just as can be said of anywhere one calls 'home'.
In Spanish, there are two verbs that mean 'to know': one is 'saber' (yo se= I know) for knowledge of information, and the other is 'conocer' (yo conozco= I know)for knowledge of people or places.
In American English, we generally say things like "Oh, I've been there before," or "I like that place" because Americans commonly live in or travel to many cities in their lifetimes. In Guatemala, the phrasing translates to "I know that town".
It makes sense to me that the word that means 'to know a place' in Latin America is the same as 'to know a person' because the sense of familiarity is so strong.
In fact, it seems the only time anyone ever leaves the town they grew up in is for work (rare though even that is)as family is extremely important culturally and logistically (families are large so that aging members are well looked after, and so that farmland can be cultivated), and children seldom stray far from their parents as they do in the States.
Just as I have learned not to hold so much judgement of people, I have come to see places in a similar way.
The wonderful (and heart-wrenching) thing about living abroad in one place for an extending time period, is that you are able to get to know that place and people. And even though I'll miss it here, I am so glad that I "conozco" at least a small part of this beautiful- albeit troubled- country.
It just makes it extremely difficult to leave.
No comments:
Post a Comment