update from guatemala

An update from the Guatemala Desk:
I wanted to briefly review my recent trip to the Guatemala Nashes ( formerly the Nantucket Nashes of Carslisle, Mass and possibly the future Concord Nash-Outerbridges of Guatemala, Nantucket and Bermuda if the families can finally agree on a dowry).
My visit happened in the country’s erstwhile upscale capital, Antigua—referred to me analogously as the Darien, CT of Central America but with just a little more dog shit on the streets.
In this ‘Darien’ there are also rickety, overstuffed pickup trucks of Guatemalans with rakes and shovels and other lawn care implements, but somehow it seems less, well, illegal.
I was instructed no fewer than 6 times in advance, via email, that the family driver Mario was not, repeat not, to receive one red cent more than $30 US (tip included!!) for his chauffeuring services on the one hour trip from the airport to Antigua, lest I set precedent and ruin it for all the future arriving gringos. The idea being, apparently, that Mario, a fully grown and completely literate adult, wouldn’t think to query the taxi service with which he competes daily and figure out how much below the going rate his rate is. I was told they have a good thing going and not to blow it with my Imperialist Yankee largesse.
The reality is that no one has to ask me more than once not to tip. In fact many might not be surprised to know that I once had a fistful of coins thrown at my head by the NYC cabbie I was trying to tip. The projectiles were lubricated with the following words that flowed frothily from his yap: “I’m gonna have a fucking party with all my fucking friends you fucking cheap fuck.” (or something like that).
Mario at the airport had a big sign on which was written in fat marker “Wally Nichols” and I felt like the rock star I deserve to be (and am in small circles). That is, until we climbed up into a diesel belching minivan like the rest of the country’s riff raff. Had to sit in the front in order to keep nausea at bay. (I tried this line on the American Airlines first class upgrade check in lady and she said, “And how will you be paying for the upgrade to first class, Mr. Nichols?” I replied, “Ummm, with my smile?”
I had a perfectly fine flight back in coach.
Mario swept the rarely used front seat clean of papers and lunch with his arm and we were off to break through the city’s traffic-throttled streets and chew our way up into the mountainous switchbacks.
There are only so many ways to keep a conversation going with a working vocabulary of 2 words. So after I identified his car for him as a car (El Coche!) and held my thumb up to my mouth with a goofy grin saying ‘mey gusta Cerveca’ (both of which earned me the same polite smile one might awkwardly offer a severely retarded midget who was touching your kneecap at the train station), we pretty much gave up on small talk and remained stone silent for the duration of the trip which, on the plus side, allowed me to take in some the sights of the vegetative, volcano-pocked land.
First observation: there is an economy of movement here, especially as it relates to the building of simple shack homes and the parking of very small vehicles into even smaller spaces, both of which they do impressively. We passed plenty of tin roof shanties that were tacked into the soil with nail files just feet from a 100 foot sheer cliff. In a land prone to earthquakes and mudslides, this placement seemed like the option-less option of the desperately poor. Seriously, one false step in the middle of the night on the way to the outhouse and you could well tumble your way into a different country.
And the way they bend long vehicles like the repurposed US school buses (aka chicken buses) around tight corners is impressive, to say the least. (On the subject of ‘chicken buses,’ enterprising gringos buy our discarded school buses at auction and drive them down the Pan American Highway to the destination country. Then they are stripped down, worked over, goosed up, painted on, chromed out and finally they emerge as iridescent and proud as 40’ resplendent diesel peacocks in mating season).
Guatemala and other Central American countries are where our cars come to die when they can no longer meet US safety standards. I’m not entirely sure how they eek out more life from these old dogs but I imagine it to be analogous to squeezing a lemon hard by hand, declaring it officially dry, and then being shown up by someone with a 10 ton hydraulic press who gets out a few more drops and proves you wrong.
I did a number of double takes from the airport to Antigua as I swore I saw all the cars of my youth race past me on the skinny asphalt arteries that connect the country. A Chevy Chevette here (minus the corn and onion kabob I made out of the antennae and left on for years), a Ford Bronco there. It felt like an automotive version of “this is your life.” So it appears true that there was a little life left in some of those high school automotive experiments after all.
Once in cobblestoned, downtown Antigua, I was greeted with open arms by nephew Gardner in his proper robbin’s egg blue school sweater vest- a tough outfit for a Mass pre- teenager, especially when it is 80 and sunny out, but he was in good spirits nonetheless and awkwardly returned my iron ‘man’ hug.
Be cool Uncle Charlie. Be cool.
The way the real estate is laid out, there are heavy cement wall s that lines the narrow streets and visually protect what’s on the other side. Every so often there’s a thick mahogany door with some serious hand wrought iron hardware, or as I became fond of muttering finally without getting slapped, “nice knockers!”
You have no idea what’s behind a given door until you open it. It’s kinda like the game show, ‘let’s make a deal’. You could open curtain #1 and find a palatial spread or open Curtain #2 and find a few goats. That’s part of the excitement and mystery of Guatemala, or at least Antigua.
Gardener slipped us back into just such a door-the entrance to their apt. Would-be criminals take note that judging a book by its cover (or house by its door) has never been, and still is not, a good idea. Would be criminals also take note that even the ‘rent a cops’ hired to do curbside security pack intimidating chrome, blunt barrel, 12 gauge shotguns with plenty of ammo in their bandoliers. One step up from them, and equally pervasive, are the federal / army troops dressed in black or fatigues who sport no bullshit automatic assault weapons. This makes for a generally safe living environment for tourists, and I can’t help but think we still have Oliver North to inadvertently thank for this.
The Nash’s apt was excellent and spacious with generous foliage growing in their living space and plenty of open, gardeny spaces. Lot’s of terra cotta and a lazy hammock for contemplating just how little can get done in a day if one tries.
You don’t leave front doors open longer than absolutely necessary here and Gardner was quick to close ours behind me making me feel like I was consummating some shady back room drug deal. (All I had muled past customs was some tampons and a box of business cards).
We were only inside (which is not even really inside, more, behind the wall) briefly- enough to grab a drink of water from their baked clay water filtration system their friend mass produces and admire the family’s impressive fruit collection. Then , after a well deserved warning about the incompatibility of toilet paper and the john, (honestly I was expecting a hole in the ground and a couple of guiding foot prints so I was pleasantly surprised) it was outside to hob knob with the locals, which is to say, watch Sandy run for mayor.
Sandy was pleased as punch to let every single vendor and friend (and probably some enemies) know that I was her brother and that I was in town (woooo hooooooo!) Mi Amano! Mi Amano! (and sometimes some pretty creative, yet well meaning tongue-twisted variations of that). The locals were taken with her enthusiasm and, in as much as we have the jiggly latin American TV sensation Charro (!!) in her bouncing bikini to goof on here in the states, the score is settled as they now have their Sandy in her tan, knee high, canvas rat catcher skirt, espadrils and fish belly white facial smear of spf 2500 sundope!
In the distance, as a continual reminder, lurks Fuego, a 13,000 foot volcano that is still actively groaning. With so much recent geo-technic activity, many are convinced she’s about to blow, the historically and unsettlingly accurate Mayans among them, no less. With 15 volcanoes alone in the country, it is no small wonder that there are also chapels and impromptu praying stations (Catholic) everywhere one turns (not to mention places to buy sweets and tortillas).
You can say they love Christ more than most, but you can’t say it and not be in the shadow of an enormous lava producer that could blow at any minute and mortar thousands of people right tight in their tracks into the country’s low spots. I’m sure the Catholic church doesn’t care how it is that folks come into their buildings, so long as they come. The looming volcanoes just seal the deal in the same way that an enormous bouncer with folded arms at the door might tend to discourage superfluous fisticuffs within the nightclub.
We decided to scale one of these volcanic monsters and see the lava up close. This trip up Picaya required a guide (well spent money) and an alarm clock so that we could start the journey early enough to watch the sunrise. 3:45am. We piled into a van and drove that thing far past where any road should have ended. Strapping on headlamps and loading an unamused brother in law (Lambchops) down with extra water bottles, we began our single file trek up, burro- like, placing one foot in the dusty print of the person in front. Couple of fart jokes here and there until oxygen at 6,000 feet was too valuable to waste on scatology.
We punched through the tree line (finally) to find a carpet of recent green mossy growth on which lava-dodging wild horses and cows were munching- at least the living ones smart enough to get out of the way. This vegetation sprouted up between the long fingers of hardened lava that had quite recently pushed this far down (like last week) before firming up. Each morning over coffee the guides discuss where the lava is flowing and aim their gringos there. Each day the topography changes.
We were advised to wear thick shoes because as soon as we started up the new lava fields, it was clear from the pre sunrise glow that there was orange molten lava only inches below our feet and that the level of infernal heat was sure to delaminate the sole’s bonding agent.
We crested a final ridge some 20 minutes past the horses, walking carefully b/c the hardened lava is almost razor sharp, and felt the blast of heat from the 4’ wide river of lava oozing down the face. Really unbelievable. This was the absolute end of the line unless you were wearing asbestos underwear and scuba gear. Nowhere in America would we be allowed to get so close to this type of danger. Even the lawyer’s liability waivers (and their dark suits) would have burst into flames, it was so hot.
I decided it was time to put this menacing volcano thing out once for all and bring some peace of mind to the nervous locals. This was going to be my gift. So I dropped trou and let fly the whiz I had been storing up since the night before’s ample beer fest. The spray of urine instantly evaporated and the mist pumped right back into my face. Yecht. (note to self: in addition to not pissing in the wind, remember to not piss on molten lava).
In a different (cleaner?) area, the guides unfolded a blanket and produced a series of interesting lunch items that were perfectly suitable for breakfast (yes it was still only 6:30 am). We cooked (yes cooked) breakfast sandwiches on the lava and as it was still sunrise, could see the orange glow of earth’s innards’ fuel against the black-blue sky.
Regularly we could hear what sounded like either a sheet of tin being flapped or a huge whale bumping its head against a plastic hull. This was the 300foot expectoration of rocks, tephra, fire and whatever other junk this beast had in its gullet that morning. That these airborne projectiles weren’t landing on us was only part of the reason no one felt bad about paying the guides the pittance for which they asked.
I was able to understand from the guides that if there was an earthquake at the precise moment (or hour) we were on the rock, we’d pretty much be toast. Unfortunately my timing was such that I only thought about posing the question far after there was time to do anything about it. Once that lava hardens, it’s pretty brittle (and very sharp). Gravity and inertia had taken it to where we walked, but a good 6.5 tremor shaking would send it (with us) to a considerably lower state of potential energy, namely the parking lot 3,000 feet below.
So that makes you want to not lollygag over breakfast too much.
We survived and the trip down was a spritely affair. Even Lambchops, this time befriended by gravity, didn’t mind carry the backpack now. We were nudged along on our way by some perturbed cows that may have been there in the dark- we just didn’t see them on the way up. Or more likely, they weren’t awake yet.
Sandy was keen to drag me by my ears to the thronged Saturday market to show me how much more gross the upside down slaughtered chickens and such were here than in America. This exercise did little to budge me from the vegetarian camp. We bought much fruit in the hurly burly market and for an unknown fistful of the local currency, I walked away with some decent quantity of ripe strawberries and a machete hacked coconut which Gardner refused to taste. I thought it was excellent and let my front teeth spend time following the contour in a blind attempt to scrape the white ‘meat’ from its concave, hairy form. Reminded me of a line from a country song about a bucktoothed beauty-“She could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence” Not a pretty sight in a public market but then again, neither is an eviscerated, skinned goat hanging from a hook.
Sandy relentlessly worked the local vendors down in price until they were practically paying her to take their produce away! You think I’m kidding. The bloodsport of hondling, while maybe not professional, certainly has a 3rd world application that Sandy has mastered and leveraged to the extent that she has beaten them at their own sorry game, if that’s possible.
Be forewarned, North American and Central American relations may be strained for a few years.
There’s a pocket of ExPats that seem to have taken up residence. If they weren’t up to such good (volunteering at food banks and building homes) I’d say they were up to no good. It looks like a country that’s easy to get lost in and just a little US currency can catapult you to the next socio-economic class pretty quickly. With extreme wealth and extreme poverty shoulder to shoulder, which is not atypical in Central America, there’s little middle class to be seen, with maybe Mario being the exception.
But the Americans and Germans (there are a lot of them for various historical post war reasons) and other non-natives here treat the country as a prized gem. Plenty are here just to help. In fact, on day 2 of my stay here we hiked up the road a spell to an outfit called God’s Love which is a multi-headed, progressive social / educational experiment for the indigent. Within the walls of this compound is much well meaning and well executed symbiosis. Children are encouraged to attend the classes that are conducted. Their parents are incentivized with a stipend that grows as a function of the child’s performance and attendance. There is an onsite clinic for general health and dentistry. The kids get educated, the parents are not fiscally punished for having their children not working the land, and, on Fridays, the surplus vegetables from the local market are dolled out to the needy (100% women) on long flat tables. Picture volunteers such as Sandy and me and others scooping broccoli and carrots into the open sacks of the poorest of the poor. Sandy’s one really well delivered word in their native tongue, “hola,” is well received by everyone in the line, whether or not they are on their first , second or final pass before the donor baskets we man are empty.
No shortage of smiles and mutual appreciation before the ladies heave the loads onto their heads and begin their 6 mile trek uphill back to their homes. It’s a satisfying affair, and one well documented by the likes of Peter Sr’s camera, with the promise (threat?) that it might make its way to the Curran catalogue or Brown Alumni Magazine.
One little cutie is 4 year old with dirty knees and a free flowing river of boogers running down her left nostril. She darts between the knees of the older ladies in line. We strike up a muted game of hide and seek which quickly results in favoritism. (So sue me). For her cuteness, playfulness, and her lot in life, I’m forced to doll out a few extra carrots, which, dirt covered, she munches on happily and without reservation. Big simple smiles are my abundant reward, and really, this is where the carrots need to be anyhow.
When the volunteering is over, the hands are washed, and the school to our backs, we head down to town for lunch and a regrouping. The afternoon’s mountain bike trek, promised to surely decimate me, has been cancelled because the guide himself is in the hospital from a fall. Hmmm. Plan B, with which we are cool, is to ascend the new jungle boardwalk in the preserve on the edge of town. This ‘boardwalk’ is a far cry from Atlantic City or Venice beach, starting with the fact it is almost completely straight uphill.
We feign outrage, international exploitation and highway robbery at the gate but finally part with the $5 entry fee we each must pay ( A king’s ransom in local terms, by the way). The park ranger is annoyingly unbribable, pretty much shooting down my romantic notions of pervasively corrupt Central America.
It’s a good thing we pay because there is another guide halfway up the trek and he stops us cold looking for our receipt. “El Coche” I arbitrarily say. I get a curious look. Sandy lets him know that I am her brother (uhh, that should work) and finally I scratch out in the dirt the amount of Quetzels (their currency) that we were beaten up for by his boyfriend at the gate. He seems to have a purpose other than simply being a troll under the proverbial bridge. He carries a 30 lb field book(in English which he doesn’t speak) on exotic birds that we might (but didn’t) see. Sandy , of course, has spooked herself silly with the specter of rabid jungle bats all looking for her alabaster neck flesh beneath her Barbara Bush pearls.
I’m impressed with the walkway’s building material. No ACQ treated lumber here. This is all jungle mahogany. There may be a few fewer hectacres of rainforest somewhere but this staircase board walk isn’t going anywhere for a hundred years. I try to spook Sandy out with tails of Central American pumas leaping from trees and attacking humans (especially humans from the Boston Suburbs- yumm!! extra tasty) but she’s still worked up about the bats. The only thing that takes her mind off the bats is the ever present drone of bees (killer bees?!) in their nests 300 feet above. Amazing to think one B grade movie made in the 70s about African Killer bees coming over our borders could do such damage, but then again, look at what ‘Jaws’ did for the shark industry.
Lambchops stopped me at the trailhead because he wanted to point out the coffee bean we Americans drop to our knees for and worship. When ripe, they are reddish. The average coffee picker fills a sack in a day and schleps (this is the true proper usage of this overused word) the 100lb bag down to the market. Never complain about your job again, no matter how tedious. Day in day out, 100 lbs of coffee beans , plucked one at a time. No such thing as a coffee break because the coffee hasn’t been picked yet.
The good stuff goes to Germany (Scheiss!) The crappy beans go to Starbucks. For real. Pinch a red coffee bean and out will slide 2 smaller beans in a mucosy, sweet covering. This is a real treat for the orally fixated like me.
The process from plantation to Starbucks cup is a intricate one and Lambchops knows enough about it to snow me as an expert.
I’d never seen a real coffee plantation and it felt like a sanctuary of richness and nature. I was expecting Juan Valdez (The Folger’s Coffee guy) to emerge from the thicket with a burro and a burlap cape. Didn’t happen but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have or hadn’t earlier.
Before I knew it it was time to head back to the airport and leave. At 5am I was on my own. Nothing but Fuego rumbling in the distance, or was it Lambchops snoring??