Antigua, Guatemala
Sunday February 2, 2020
10 AM
The time has come. A number of fair skinned people who hail from the north have trickled into the brightly colourful town of Antigua over the past few days. Our numbers have grown from four to twenty. It is time to put Antigua in the past. It is time to move on.
The first stage of our journey together has been, for the most part, successful. Rendezvous Antigua accomplished. For sure, there have been a couple of minor glitches as there always are when trying to form individuals into a coherent flock, for people are in many ways much like chickens when given free range. They like to go off in their own separate directions. They can seem willful, disrespectful, flighty, and yet at the end of the day when they all come home to roost we can be thankful.
People, like chickens, if you haven't noticed, can be a little scatter brained to the point of distraction. About the hardest thing you may ever do is trying to get chickens to do what you may want them to do when you want them to do it. It is, for this reason, that every flock should have a rooster. The rooster provides a protective watch and acts as a navigator, a guide, a coordinator of events so to speak. And it is the chicken's nature to ignore the rooster.
Here, at home in the village of Maberly, I spend some of my time observing chicken behavior. Why not, it is infinitely more interesting than most television shows. My favourite scenes involve our churlish rooster struggle in his vain attempts in keeping order amongst his unruly flock. The words that best describe his state of being are 'having a conniption.' It may not be funny to him, poor guy, but I sure get a kick out of it.
Am I actually comparing people to chickens? I guess I am. What a presumptuous, arrogant, hilarious thing for me to do. Sorry about that. Let's just end our chicken analogy part of the story by saying in earnest we had a few chicken moments and a few rooster moments and we all made it home to roost.
Antigua had been a great introduction to the wonder that is Guatemala. It has a reasonable mix of ubiquitous tourist and the typical resident. It is as historic as it is alive in the present. It has places of interest and places to relax. There is a dynamic feeling of productivity and excitement that builds throughout the day and then come evening there is an almost imperceptible soft giving away that allows for a period of satisfying introspection. And of course there is the glorious power of the sky and the mountains that reign and watch over the attractive little city.
So finally the shuttle bus is here to scoot us off to our next destination, the next stage of our journey, the part where we get down to work. The luggage is now loaded. The people mill about the entrance of the hotel, inside and out. We stand in close knit circles upon the cobblestone street, separate yet together, waiting for the call to board. As each day goes by we get to know each other a little better. The sky is blue and clear as it has been for the past three days and the road ahead seems as hopeful and bright as the one we are about to leave behind.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Monday, February 24, 2020
When The Rooster Crows
When your rooster crows
At the break of dawn
Look out your window
And I'll be gone
Bob Dylan; Don't Think Twice
Antigua, Guatemala
January 31, 2020
You are a morning person. You can't help it. Even when you go to bed late you wake up early. Now what? You are awake and it is dark. Pitch dark. You are confused. You hear a rooster crowing. You lie in the dark. You listen to the breath of the person beside you and you hear the rooster crow.
The room is dark, dark as tar, and you can't see a thing. The rooster crows and you can't remember where you are so you get up, dress, and quietly go out the door. Your shoes click on the tile floor.
The screen of your cell phone glows in the dark. Is it Eastern or Central time? You cannot remember. You remember where you are and how you got there but time is beyond comprehension. The hall is deserted and your shoes click on the tile floor. The man that greeted you when you arrived yesterday is asleep. His head is down on the front desk and you hear his breathing.
You unlatch a gigantic wood door that is the main entrance and step out onto the street. The door swings easily and makes no noise. The door is a portal. It connects and separates two worlds. You step through it onto the hard cobblestone street. You close the portal behind you. There is a click. A faint click. It latches shut, without effort, and you are left to stand in silence on the cobblestone road.
The road is deserted. It is dark, like pitch. The sun has yet to come up. The rooster crows. And in kind, other roosters respond. You stand with your back to the portal. You turn to look at it and you raise your hand to give it a gentle push. You turn your back to the great door a second time and for no reason you turn left.
At the first intersection you come to you turn left again. Maybe you have a sense of where you are going. Maybe you don't. The sun remains buried behind the shadow of the mountains but you notice the sky is brighter. The roads are deserted. The shops that once were open are all closed, barricaded and locked. Some locked with several locks. Everything is locked and latched tight.
Yesterday you saw a cafe. You can't remember where you saw the cafe. It was only the day before. You can't remember so you continue to walk.
You walk past an ancient Spanish Church. It is painted yellow, like the light of the sun, and the trim and the statues embedded in wall cavities are painted white, for pureness. Pigeons roost on the heads of the statues and deposit their droppings on the heads of saints. In front of the church is a square. There are trees, and benches for people to sit. There are people sitting on the benches. You look at them. They at you. And you walk past them. The light is dim and the sun is rising. The sky is brighter than it was before.
You turn right. You turn right because you see the arch. The big arch spans the cobblestone road and acts as a kind of marker. Yesterday the road was full of people. People and cars. And they took pictures of the arch. Now the road is empty and you stand on the deserted cobblestone below the great arch. The arch is painted yellow, like the golden rays of the sun, and parts of it are trimmed and painted white, for purity. The cobblestones are dark. Almost black and their surfaces are round and worn smooth. You take a picture of the arch because the street is deserted and there are no cars.
Straight ahead, down the cobblestone road, you see the central square. You remember the square like you remembered the big arch. The square and the the arch are like sign posts and act as markers.
You hear the engine of a car. Then a pickup truck passes slowly in front of you. The pickup truck is full of people. The people are crammed onto the bed of the pickup truck. Their hands clutch a metal rail that is there to prevent them from falling out. People stand on the bumper and cling to the metal rail. The truck is crammed full of silent people and it rides low across the black cobblestones. The wheels click on smooth stones. And you watch it pass by.
The narrow streets of cobblestone have come alive. There must be a signal you have missed. Store fronts are open and the streets are filling with people. People and cars and trucks and motorcycles. There must have been a signal and you missed it.
The shadows of the mountains stretch across the city. The sky is brighter. The morning sun, with it's gleaming rays of light, remains parked behind the mountains. You continue to walk towards the central square that is filling with people.
The espresso is dark. It is black, like pitch, like a darkened room, and you take a sip of the delicate nectar. You stand on the curb across the way from the central square and you think about crossing the cobblestone street and sitting on a bench with all the other silent people. You think about sitting on a bench, sipping your nectar, and watch for the sun as it rises over the mountains. But you don't. You turn left. You start the long walk back to the portal. And you hope the doorman is awake. That the doorman is no longer asleep at his desk.
At the break of dawn
Look out your window
And I'll be gone
Bob Dylan; Don't Think Twice
Antigua, Guatemala
January 31, 2020
You are a morning person. You can't help it. Even when you go to bed late you wake up early. Now what? You are awake and it is dark. Pitch dark. You are confused. You hear a rooster crowing. You lie in the dark. You listen to the breath of the person beside you and you hear the rooster crow.
The room is dark, dark as tar, and you can't see a thing. The rooster crows and you can't remember where you are so you get up, dress, and quietly go out the door. Your shoes click on the tile floor.
The screen of your cell phone glows in the dark. Is it Eastern or Central time? You cannot remember. You remember where you are and how you got there but time is beyond comprehension. The hall is deserted and your shoes click on the tile floor. The man that greeted you when you arrived yesterday is asleep. His head is down on the front desk and you hear his breathing.
You unlatch a gigantic wood door that is the main entrance and step out onto the street. The door swings easily and makes no noise. The door is a portal. It connects and separates two worlds. You step through it onto the hard cobblestone street. You close the portal behind you. There is a click. A faint click. It latches shut, without effort, and you are left to stand in silence on the cobblestone road.
The road is deserted. It is dark, like pitch. The sun has yet to come up. The rooster crows. And in kind, other roosters respond. You stand with your back to the portal. You turn to look at it and you raise your hand to give it a gentle push. You turn your back to the great door a second time and for no reason you turn left.
At the first intersection you come to you turn left again. Maybe you have a sense of where you are going. Maybe you don't. The sun remains buried behind the shadow of the mountains but you notice the sky is brighter. The roads are deserted. The shops that once were open are all closed, barricaded and locked. Some locked with several locks. Everything is locked and latched tight.
Yesterday you saw a cafe. You can't remember where you saw the cafe. It was only the day before. You can't remember so you continue to walk.
You walk past an ancient Spanish Church. It is painted yellow, like the light of the sun, and the trim and the statues embedded in wall cavities are painted white, for pureness. Pigeons roost on the heads of the statues and deposit their droppings on the heads of saints. In front of the church is a square. There are trees, and benches for people to sit. There are people sitting on the benches. You look at them. They at you. And you walk past them. The light is dim and the sun is rising. The sky is brighter than it was before.
You turn right. You turn right because you see the arch. The big arch spans the cobblestone road and acts as a kind of marker. Yesterday the road was full of people. People and cars. And they took pictures of the arch. Now the road is empty and you stand on the deserted cobblestone below the great arch. The arch is painted yellow, like the golden rays of the sun, and parts of it are trimmed and painted white, for purity. The cobblestones are dark. Almost black and their surfaces are round and worn smooth. You take a picture of the arch because the street is deserted and there are no cars.
Straight ahead, down the cobblestone road, you see the central square. You remember the square like you remembered the big arch. The square and the the arch are like sign posts and act as markers.
You hear the engine of a car. Then a pickup truck passes slowly in front of you. The pickup truck is full of people. The people are crammed onto the bed of the pickup truck. Their hands clutch a metal rail that is there to prevent them from falling out. People stand on the bumper and cling to the metal rail. The truck is crammed full of silent people and it rides low across the black cobblestones. The wheels click on smooth stones. And you watch it pass by.
The narrow streets of cobblestone have come alive. There must be a signal you have missed. Store fronts are open and the streets are filling with people. People and cars and trucks and motorcycles. There must have been a signal and you missed it.
The shadows of the mountains stretch across the city. The sky is brighter. The morning sun, with it's gleaming rays of light, remains parked behind the mountains. You continue to walk towards the central square that is filling with people.
The espresso is dark. It is black, like pitch, like a darkened room, and you take a sip of the delicate nectar. You stand on the curb across the way from the central square and you think about crossing the cobblestone street and sitting on a bench with all the other silent people. You think about sitting on a bench, sipping your nectar, and watch for the sun as it rises over the mountains. But you don't. You turn left. You start the long walk back to the portal. And you hope the doorman is awake. That the doorman is no longer asleep at his desk.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
The Guatemala Stove Project
Before going much further with the story I suppose I should talk (write?) about the main purpose I have traveled a thousand miles into the deepest heart of Central America.
Up to this point my three little tales have been more or less about me which, as you have probably gathered, is my favourite topic. I'm confident you are your own favourite topic too. After all, are we not the most interesting person we know. Like a tire with a slow leak our minds roil with self deflating internal conversations. There are times we say one thing while we do another and in the process we become a jangle of contradiction. We drag ourselves down by a thousand tortured failures as we stumble blindly along a broken pathetic existence. Wow, that is so drama. Okay, so maybe YOU don't, You're perfect, which I've always thought, but I am certainly an existential mess. Ironically it's this animated mess that makes for the interesting stuff that the best and most fascinating stories are made. What great artist is not a tortured soul. Bad things come before good things. And then bad things happen again. And so on. I don't really know what that has to do with anything about the GSP but there you have it.
The Guatemala Stove Project (GSP) has been around for 20 odd years. It is a charitable, non-profit organization that funds the building of wood burning stoves in the highlands of Guatemala, Central America.
Why wood stoves? Well, the people who live here, the native Mayan people, are the poorest and most marginalized in a poor and marginalized country. They live a subsistence existence, meaning, basically, they live off the land. Their homes are hand built of adobe (mud). Most have no running water. A few have minimal electricity. They grow and harvest their own food and they cook what they have over open fires. There is little variety in their diet, mostly corn, and if they are fortunate, some vegetables. Cooking takes place outside the home but most cooking takes place indoors. Fire wood is either gathered from far away and carried back to camp, or if the family has an income in that particular month they may be able to purchase a few arm fulls of wood.
Imagine a tiny fire in the center of a small dark room. You will cook all your meals on this fire. There is an entrance that may or may not have a door. There could be a tiny window for light. Or not. There is a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. A pot of water rests on the fire. You, the mother, tend the fire and watch patiently, carefully as the water comes to a boil. Two or three of your children are with you. The haze is as thick as soup and you can hardly see your child who totters across the way. The walls are stained black. So are your lungs. Your eyes sting and burn. You rub your eyes and that only makes it worse. Breath in, breath out.
I don't know if you have ever been in a smoke filled room but it is wicked. Recall those smoke filled bars in which us boomers once passed away the time way back when. And that is tolerable comparatively speaking.
There are several things going on here. The health issues are obvious. However, there are a few other things to consider. An open fire uses a ton of wood compared to an enclosed and efficient wood stove. Imagine you have to collect all that wood and carry it up the side of a mountain. Every day. More wood, more deforestation. More deforestation, more soil erosion. More soil erosion, less productive soil and the greater the chance of mud slides.
And in the big picture, more wood burned, a hell of a lot more carbon emissions. More trees cut down, less carbon sequestration. Forests and Jungle are good things for the planet. Desert, not so much.
When the forests are gone they are gone. The land becomes barren and dry. The birds, the animals, the insects are gone too. We humans are hard on this earth. We don't mean to be. We just are.
I digress, the stove is a source of pride for the family and it becomes a place for communal and family activity. Cooking is safer as there is far less chance for burns and accidental fires. Or, if the family has to purchase fire wood periodically they could save on this expenditure and use the money elsewhere for other much needed goods.
There is no chance for employment for the people in the hills. There are no jobs. There probably will be no jobs other than agriculture. There are very few places for education. Education is key, especially for women, as they are the backbone of civilization. Women and education are the glue that binds. Guatemalan men, and entire families, are abandoning their homeland for the supposedly greener pastures of North America in hopes of a better life. We have heard the stories. I can't blame them for seeking something better. You and I would do the same. The history of humanity is the story of migration. A cook stove won't change that but it will change the lives for the better for those who stay.
A stove costs $300 Canadian dollars. Think about it. Or think about donating 20 bucks. It won't kill you like a face full of smoke.
Up to this point my three little tales have been more or less about me which, as you have probably gathered, is my favourite topic. I'm confident you are your own favourite topic too. After all, are we not the most interesting person we know. Like a tire with a slow leak our minds roil with self deflating internal conversations. There are times we say one thing while we do another and in the process we become a jangle of contradiction. We drag ourselves down by a thousand tortured failures as we stumble blindly along a broken pathetic existence. Wow, that is so drama. Okay, so maybe YOU don't, You're perfect, which I've always thought, but I am certainly an existential mess. Ironically it's this animated mess that makes for the interesting stuff that the best and most fascinating stories are made. What great artist is not a tortured soul. Bad things come before good things. And then bad things happen again. And so on. I don't really know what that has to do with anything about the GSP but there you have it.
The Guatemala Stove Project (GSP) has been around for 20 odd years. It is a charitable, non-profit organization that funds the building of wood burning stoves in the highlands of Guatemala, Central America.
Why wood stoves? Well, the people who live here, the native Mayan people, are the poorest and most marginalized in a poor and marginalized country. They live a subsistence existence, meaning, basically, they live off the land. Their homes are hand built of adobe (mud). Most have no running water. A few have minimal electricity. They grow and harvest their own food and they cook what they have over open fires. There is little variety in their diet, mostly corn, and if they are fortunate, some vegetables. Cooking takes place outside the home but most cooking takes place indoors. Fire wood is either gathered from far away and carried back to camp, or if the family has an income in that particular month they may be able to purchase a few arm fulls of wood.
Imagine a tiny fire in the center of a small dark room. You will cook all your meals on this fire. There is an entrance that may or may not have a door. There could be a tiny window for light. Or not. There is a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. A pot of water rests on the fire. You, the mother, tend the fire and watch patiently, carefully as the water comes to a boil. Two or three of your children are with you. The haze is as thick as soup and you can hardly see your child who totters across the way. The walls are stained black. So are your lungs. Your eyes sting and burn. You rub your eyes and that only makes it worse. Breath in, breath out.
I don't know if you have ever been in a smoke filled room but it is wicked. Recall those smoke filled bars in which us boomers once passed away the time way back when. And that is tolerable comparatively speaking.
There are several things going on here. The health issues are obvious. However, there are a few other things to consider. An open fire uses a ton of wood compared to an enclosed and efficient wood stove. Imagine you have to collect all that wood and carry it up the side of a mountain. Every day. More wood, more deforestation. More deforestation, more soil erosion. More soil erosion, less productive soil and the greater the chance of mud slides.
And in the big picture, more wood burned, a hell of a lot more carbon emissions. More trees cut down, less carbon sequestration. Forests and Jungle are good things for the planet. Desert, not so much.
When the forests are gone they are gone. The land becomes barren and dry. The birds, the animals, the insects are gone too. We humans are hard on this earth. We don't mean to be. We just are.
I digress, the stove is a source of pride for the family and it becomes a place for communal and family activity. Cooking is safer as there is far less chance for burns and accidental fires. Or, if the family has to purchase fire wood periodically they could save on this expenditure and use the money elsewhere for other much needed goods.
There is no chance for employment for the people in the hills. There are no jobs. There probably will be no jobs other than agriculture. There are very few places for education. Education is key, especially for women, as they are the backbone of civilization. Women and education are the glue that binds. Guatemalan men, and entire families, are abandoning their homeland for the supposedly greener pastures of North America in hopes of a better life. We have heard the stories. I can't blame them for seeking something better. You and I would do the same. The history of humanity is the story of migration. A cook stove won't change that but it will change the lives for the better for those who stay.
A stove costs $300 Canadian dollars. Think about it. Or think about donating 20 bucks. It won't kill you like a face full of smoke.
Friday, February 21, 2020
Antigua
Antigua Guatemala has been designated an UNESCO world heritage site. I can see why. It is very much what you'd expect to encounter in a 500 year old Colonial Spanish city. I gather that Antigua translates roughly as 'Old Guatemala' and the city has the ancient feeling of old bones. But in my pale green eyes everything is new and I am, as I stand upon black hewed cobblestone trying to avoid motorcycles and cars gawking at this new world around me, mesmerized by it's beauty. I think I have fallen in love with a place.
At some point on this working vacation though the love will tarnish and fade as love sometimes can. Warts and faults appear on our beloved and we see things differently. Or do we ultimately see things as they really are? Influenced by our own biases and personalities of course. But the initial flush of love is thrilling and so I jump right in. Like a crow or magpie I am sometimes infatuated by shiny new things and I am drawn to pick them up and keep them to myself.
Our hotel has a strong Spanish flavour as does everything in Antigua. The individual rooms of the Posada La Merced surround a lush garden courtyard which is open to a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. A little fountain trickles water. Plants familiar and unfamiliar hang everywhere from thick wooden rafters stained dark with time. There is a bench to sit and wonder. I am green with envy, not so much for this exact place but that there are places in this world that are warm year round, where one can have a courtyard open to the blue skies above, where the rains can fall in and wash away the dust of time, where one can nurture and tend their own private Garden of Eden and let the days slowly pass in the care of something that feeds and nurtures the soul.
Not to disparage upon myself and give the world the wrong impression but I do have my own Garden of Eden complete with my own Eve and a lovely community that supports and connects. I suppose the difference is my courtyard is seasonal. And it is not enclosed by walls of tile and stone but of trees and fields, and the tending of gardens in the warm summer months give way to the tending of banked fires that glow through the window of an airtight stove during the long snow crusted winters. It is not so bad, these changing seasons, it is just different, though right now I am jealous that a builder can build a house without considering the need to account for a biting cold that lasts for months and for the underlying earth that will heave with frost when winter sets in. I will, at this time, conveniently ignore the ever present threat that earthquakes could topple this city of dreams and turn stone to rubble at any moment for the sake of love at first sight.
Antigua has about forty five thousand people, similar to the size of Ontario's Belleville. The entire city is surrounded by mountains so I feel like I'm a tiny child sitting in the bottom of an immense bathtub as I look up at these towering peaks. The mountains are no so much mountains as they are volcanoes, most of them dormant, but some of them occasionally fart out smoke and lava.
The day is early so once we are settled in I am too excited to sit still. Probably the first thing that anyone does when arriving at a new place is explore. This I believe is to get one's bearings and to learn what is where. For Catherine it is textiles and museums. For me it is Espresso Cafe's and more Espresso Cafe's.
I won't bore you with a detailed account of walking through the city but I will say it is a fantastic city to walk and walk and walk some more. One caveat though, the sidewalks are narrow and uneven. The cobblestone roads are narrow and uneven. And, I'm fairly sure of this, pedestrians don't necessarily have the right of way. Caution to you who visit. Watch your step. Heads up. Eyes down.
At some point on this working vacation though the love will tarnish and fade as love sometimes can. Warts and faults appear on our beloved and we see things differently. Or do we ultimately see things as they really are? Influenced by our own biases and personalities of course. But the initial flush of love is thrilling and so I jump right in. Like a crow or magpie I am sometimes infatuated by shiny new things and I am drawn to pick them up and keep them to myself.
Our hotel has a strong Spanish flavour as does everything in Antigua. The individual rooms of the Posada La Merced surround a lush garden courtyard which is open to a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. A little fountain trickles water. Plants familiar and unfamiliar hang everywhere from thick wooden rafters stained dark with time. There is a bench to sit and wonder. I am green with envy, not so much for this exact place but that there are places in this world that are warm year round, where one can have a courtyard open to the blue skies above, where the rains can fall in and wash away the dust of time, where one can nurture and tend their own private Garden of Eden and let the days slowly pass in the care of something that feeds and nurtures the soul.
Not to disparage upon myself and give the world the wrong impression but I do have my own Garden of Eden complete with my own Eve and a lovely community that supports and connects. I suppose the difference is my courtyard is seasonal. And it is not enclosed by walls of tile and stone but of trees and fields, and the tending of gardens in the warm summer months give way to the tending of banked fires that glow through the window of an airtight stove during the long snow crusted winters. It is not so bad, these changing seasons, it is just different, though right now I am jealous that a builder can build a house without considering the need to account for a biting cold that lasts for months and for the underlying earth that will heave with frost when winter sets in. I will, at this time, conveniently ignore the ever present threat that earthquakes could topple this city of dreams and turn stone to rubble at any moment for the sake of love at first sight.
Antigua has about forty five thousand people, similar to the size of Ontario's Belleville. The entire city is surrounded by mountains so I feel like I'm a tiny child sitting in the bottom of an immense bathtub as I look up at these towering peaks. The mountains are no so much mountains as they are volcanoes, most of them dormant, but some of them occasionally fart out smoke and lava.
The day is early so once we are settled in I am too excited to sit still. Probably the first thing that anyone does when arriving at a new place is explore. This I believe is to get one's bearings and to learn what is where. For Catherine it is textiles and museums. For me it is Espresso Cafe's and more Espresso Cafe's.
I won't bore you with a detailed account of walking through the city but I will say it is a fantastic city to walk and walk and walk some more. One caveat though, the sidewalks are narrow and uneven. The cobblestone roads are narrow and uneven. And, I'm fairly sure of this, pedestrians don't necessarily have the right of way. Caution to you who visit. Watch your step. Heads up. Eyes down.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Guatemala City
Yes I am a tourist. I am also on a mission. I have come to Guatemala to help build stoves. There are roughly 20 of us arriving from frigid Ontario over the next few days. Then we will go up into the highlands that surround Guatemala's second biggest city, Quetzaltenango. And once up in the mountains we will meet the Mayan people who have lived there forever, in villages and communities small and large, old and new, and we will get down to work. A few of the organizers are already in Guatemala. They came early to meet the people and collect information on the many stoves that have been built over the past year.
Not counting the organizers, this particular traveling party of 6 are the first to arrive in Guatemala. We had set our travel plans as such so we would have a few days to acclimatize ourselves to the country and the culture. It is a great idea. I love the idea of hanging out before work.
One slight hitch. Only 4 of us arrive at the Guatemalan airport. Two are left behind in Mexico City. They missed their connecting flight. It is a long story full of happenstance and pathos. I'll skip the details and summarize by saying we are not impressed with AeroMexico. Things being what they are, the two of them did eventually arrive, sans luggage. As it is, there ain't no sense in dwelling on things that go amiss. If I were the type to dwell on my screw ups I'd regret most every day of my life. That's also another long story. Best to leave it alone. For now.
At the exit doors of the airport the surviving 4 of us were on the lookout for a dude that should be holding a sign written in English. 'Stove Project'. We found him and after a semi-confusing conversation held in sign language, broken Spanish mixed in with a few French verbs, and much pointing we follow him out the door to a waiting shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is basically a big van with a whole lot of seats. I quickly learn shuttle buses in Guatemala are usually full beyond capacity. They drive along roads with the sliding side door wide open. People hop off and on willy nilly. Luggage, boxes, tools, crates of live chickens are stored and tied haphazardly in place on the roof. This is not the case for the four of us. Today we travel is spacious luxury.
My first breath of warm Guatemalan air has an aroma thick with floral sweetness. Sounds of traffic and the occasional horn mingle with the cheerful chirping of birds. Colour seems to be everywhere. A blue sky. Trees full and green. Red, orange, yellow flowers. I see butterflies. I'd call this paradise if I were not standing in the midst of a large Central American city.
The colourful contrast to the mostly monochrome uniformity of a Canadian winter is almost overwhelming. Over the past few months I have forgotten the pleasures that come with a Canadian summer, and now, how quickly I accept my new surroundings. Winter was yesterday and already a part of my past.
It is hot but not humid. These are highlands after all. And though one could say we are in the tropics I am told the type of climate that makes your clothes stick to your skin is limited to the Pacific coast. Moisture that wafts in off that vast and rolling ocean stalls when the heavy air masses encounter the volcanic mountain range that traverses Guatemala like a bony spine and divides the country in two.
Guatemala City is the capital. Like Ottawa the population is a million strong but it is said if one includes the surrounding areas the number of people living here soars above 3 million.
Our bus swings through the city. The driver has a heavy foot. Traffic is chaotic. There are more motorcycles and scooters than cars. There seems to be no traffic lights and stop signs. Like ants on a congested path trucks, cars, bikes and the smoke belching chicken buses merge and pass and cut one another off. Movement is continuous. Roads are lined with uncountable vendors and pedestrians who appear to be inches away from the voluminous traffic. Rules? There are no rules. No time for shyness. Just go.
I am wide eyed and laughing with the giddy tickle sensation that comes with the excitement and wonder of something completely foreign yet unmistakably human . Can this be the same planet I currently live on? Mere minutes have passed and already I have become entrenched in a strange new world in which my sense for the exotic is about to explode and my hunger for adventure is ravenous.
Motorcyclists do not wear helmets. There are two, three, four, five people sardined into the seats of a thousand speeding scooters. Entire families weave through traffic, tiny children sandwiched between parents. They speed along center lanes with careless abandon. I gorge on the thrill of it all and I long to be riding in the midst of this chaotic mayhem. Without a doubt I would be injured or deceased within minutes. It seems worth the risk.
Mr. Heavy Foot pushes the van along what I think might be a highway and soon the traffic thins as we reach the edge of the great city. Up into the mountains we climb. The road snakes and turns as we go and we lean and rock with every motion. I should be tired for I have barely slept in the past 30 hours. But between coffee and excitement I am alert. I am doing my best to engage with what goes on before me.
After an hour, or two, for it is hard to tell, we come to another city. The roads we have traveled have been a continuous line of houses and businesses, except where the mountain sides are too steep to build, so I find it difficult to discern changing patterns. But traffic has congested once again. Of that I am sure.
Without warning pavement turns to cobblestone. The tires click and roar and the van bounces to the cobblestone beat. Streets narrow to alleyways more suitable to horse and buggy. The roads jut confusingly in every direction. The buildings we fly past are solid looking and their exteriors are plastered and painted in a mosaic of colour. Once again there are pedestrians and motorcycles everywhere. We pass churches and park squares, coffee shops, hotels and homes. Some buildings lie in ruins. The van seems to be going in circles. Later I figure out the streets are a maze of one way directions. The van jerks to a halt. We have arrived in Antigua unbeknownst to me.
Not counting the organizers, this particular traveling party of 6 are the first to arrive in Guatemala. We had set our travel plans as such so we would have a few days to acclimatize ourselves to the country and the culture. It is a great idea. I love the idea of hanging out before work.
One slight hitch. Only 4 of us arrive at the Guatemalan airport. Two are left behind in Mexico City. They missed their connecting flight. It is a long story full of happenstance and pathos. I'll skip the details and summarize by saying we are not impressed with AeroMexico. Things being what they are, the two of them did eventually arrive, sans luggage. As it is, there ain't no sense in dwelling on things that go amiss. If I were the type to dwell on my screw ups I'd regret most every day of my life. That's also another long story. Best to leave it alone. For now.
At the exit doors of the airport the surviving 4 of us were on the lookout for a dude that should be holding a sign written in English. 'Stove Project'. We found him and after a semi-confusing conversation held in sign language, broken Spanish mixed in with a few French verbs, and much pointing we follow him out the door to a waiting shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is basically a big van with a whole lot of seats. I quickly learn shuttle buses in Guatemala are usually full beyond capacity. They drive along roads with the sliding side door wide open. People hop off and on willy nilly. Luggage, boxes, tools, crates of live chickens are stored and tied haphazardly in place on the roof. This is not the case for the four of us. Today we travel is spacious luxury.
My first breath of warm Guatemalan air has an aroma thick with floral sweetness. Sounds of traffic and the occasional horn mingle with the cheerful chirping of birds. Colour seems to be everywhere. A blue sky. Trees full and green. Red, orange, yellow flowers. I see butterflies. I'd call this paradise if I were not standing in the midst of a large Central American city.
The colourful contrast to the mostly monochrome uniformity of a Canadian winter is almost overwhelming. Over the past few months I have forgotten the pleasures that come with a Canadian summer, and now, how quickly I accept my new surroundings. Winter was yesterday and already a part of my past.
It is hot but not humid. These are highlands after all. And though one could say we are in the tropics I am told the type of climate that makes your clothes stick to your skin is limited to the Pacific coast. Moisture that wafts in off that vast and rolling ocean stalls when the heavy air masses encounter the volcanic mountain range that traverses Guatemala like a bony spine and divides the country in two.
Guatemala City is the capital. Like Ottawa the population is a million strong but it is said if one includes the surrounding areas the number of people living here soars above 3 million.
Our bus swings through the city. The driver has a heavy foot. Traffic is chaotic. There are more motorcycles and scooters than cars. There seems to be no traffic lights and stop signs. Like ants on a congested path trucks, cars, bikes and the smoke belching chicken buses merge and pass and cut one another off. Movement is continuous. Roads are lined with uncountable vendors and pedestrians who appear to be inches away from the voluminous traffic. Rules? There are no rules. No time for shyness. Just go.
I am wide eyed and laughing with the giddy tickle sensation that comes with the excitement and wonder of something completely foreign yet unmistakably human . Can this be the same planet I currently live on? Mere minutes have passed and already I have become entrenched in a strange new world in which my sense for the exotic is about to explode and my hunger for adventure is ravenous.
Motorcyclists do not wear helmets. There are two, three, four, five people sardined into the seats of a thousand speeding scooters. Entire families weave through traffic, tiny children sandwiched between parents. They speed along center lanes with careless abandon. I gorge on the thrill of it all and I long to be riding in the midst of this chaotic mayhem. Without a doubt I would be injured or deceased within minutes. It seems worth the risk.
Mr. Heavy Foot pushes the van along what I think might be a highway and soon the traffic thins as we reach the edge of the great city. Up into the mountains we climb. The road snakes and turns as we go and we lean and rock with every motion. I should be tired for I have barely slept in the past 30 hours. But between coffee and excitement I am alert. I am doing my best to engage with what goes on before me.
After an hour, or two, for it is hard to tell, we come to another city. The roads we have traveled have been a continuous line of houses and businesses, except where the mountain sides are too steep to build, so I find it difficult to discern changing patterns. But traffic has congested once again. Of that I am sure.
Without warning pavement turns to cobblestone. The tires click and roar and the van bounces to the cobblestone beat. Streets narrow to alleyways more suitable to horse and buggy. The roads jut confusingly in every direction. The buildings we fly past are solid looking and their exteriors are plastered and painted in a mosaic of colour. Once again there are pedestrians and motorcycles everywhere. We pass churches and park squares, coffee shops, hotels and homes. Some buildings lie in ruins. The van seems to be going in circles. Later I figure out the streets are a maze of one way directions. The van jerks to a halt. We have arrived in Antigua unbeknownst to me.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Guatemala; Upon Arrival
The first thing that comes to mind is how the unordinary quickly becomes ordinary. Perhaps this is a comment on how quickly people adapt to new surroundings. I know this to be true.
Upon touchdown at the main airport of Guatemala, comparatively speaking a tiny airport with one small terminal, I am bristling with attentiveness to the new world that has appeared around me. I do my best to absorb all than I can. My senses are on high alert. The newness of it all is exciting.
For the most part the long and narrow hall of the terminal is void of people. Our footsteps and voices echo off the terrazzo floors and the immense glass windows as if we are wandering through a rocky Arizona canyon.
As I walk, heavy with backpack and single suitcase, I peer through the large windows at the world beyond. There are but a couple of airliners out on the tarmac, one of them the one that brought us. They bear the insignia of AeroMexico; a bird of prey set as headgear on a human face, probably Aztec. I cannot explain why but I like their logo. Perhaps it is unique. From the near empty cavern and the barren tarmac one would surmise that Guatemala is neither a tourist destination nor a business center. That's okay with me. I hate tourists, even though I'm one.
The tarmac stretches out a few hundred feet and then abruptly encounters a shear rock wall that has been cut and grooved by machine. The flat surface that is the landing strip and terminal building is obviously human made for the landscape that surrounds me is rolling with mountains and I hazard a guess there is little chance of finding a natural area that is large enough and level enough and suitable enough to land a jet.
Along the entire top of the etched and imposing wall there is a chain link fence and the fence itself is lined along its top with coiled razor wire. Okay, so this is Guatemala. I can see the point of the fence. It is a barrier to keep people from falling over the edge, but then why the razor wire. Who in their right mind would clamber over a fence to immediately become involved in a 50 meter drop to hard pavement? Wait a minute, there are people in this world who are not in their right mind. The razor wire is to protect us from ourselves and the stupid ideas that sometimes inspire us. Hey, I have a great idea, lets storm the airport! Who's with me? Lemmings.
Beyond the fence are tropical looking trees, and a road upon which I see cars traveling. Beyond this are rows of tall buildings, apartments as opposed to business towers. The buildings are in various states of condition, meaning some look in sad shape and in need of repair, and some are colourful and cheery looking in their own right. I think of Beirut, even though I've never been to Beirut. Again I don't know why. I generally don't know why I think what I think. The city looks appealing and unappealing. My first impression is what a great place, I wouldn't want to live here.
Yes, yes, yes, and then in the further beyond are the mountains. The lovely mountains. Not tall and snow covered like the Rockies or Andes but still what I would call big mothers. It is early morning. We have been in the air all night traveling through darkness. We have left the cold and snow and the relatively flat surface of Eastern Canada behind. Now the sun has come up over the hills and the sky is clear blue. I have yet to taste the warm air. The mountains look dry and thirsty. I love mountains and I am ready to sip the nectar of Guatemala.
Upon touchdown at the main airport of Guatemala, comparatively speaking a tiny airport with one small terminal, I am bristling with attentiveness to the new world that has appeared around me. I do my best to absorb all than I can. My senses are on high alert. The newness of it all is exciting.
For the most part the long and narrow hall of the terminal is void of people. Our footsteps and voices echo off the terrazzo floors and the immense glass windows as if we are wandering through a rocky Arizona canyon.
As I walk, heavy with backpack and single suitcase, I peer through the large windows at the world beyond. There are but a couple of airliners out on the tarmac, one of them the one that brought us. They bear the insignia of AeroMexico; a bird of prey set as headgear on a human face, probably Aztec. I cannot explain why but I like their logo. Perhaps it is unique. From the near empty cavern and the barren tarmac one would surmise that Guatemala is neither a tourist destination nor a business center. That's okay with me. I hate tourists, even though I'm one.
The tarmac stretches out a few hundred feet and then abruptly encounters a shear rock wall that has been cut and grooved by machine. The flat surface that is the landing strip and terminal building is obviously human made for the landscape that surrounds me is rolling with mountains and I hazard a guess there is little chance of finding a natural area that is large enough and level enough and suitable enough to land a jet.
Along the entire top of the etched and imposing wall there is a chain link fence and the fence itself is lined along its top with coiled razor wire. Okay, so this is Guatemala. I can see the point of the fence. It is a barrier to keep people from falling over the edge, but then why the razor wire. Who in their right mind would clamber over a fence to immediately become involved in a 50 meter drop to hard pavement? Wait a minute, there are people in this world who are not in their right mind. The razor wire is to protect us from ourselves and the stupid ideas that sometimes inspire us. Hey, I have a great idea, lets storm the airport! Who's with me? Lemmings.
Beyond the fence are tropical looking trees, and a road upon which I see cars traveling. Beyond this are rows of tall buildings, apartments as opposed to business towers. The buildings are in various states of condition, meaning some look in sad shape and in need of repair, and some are colourful and cheery looking in their own right. I think of Beirut, even though I've never been to Beirut. Again I don't know why. I generally don't know why I think what I think. The city looks appealing and unappealing. My first impression is what a great place, I wouldn't want to live here.
Yes, yes, yes, and then in the further beyond are the mountains. The lovely mountains. Not tall and snow covered like the Rockies or Andes but still what I would call big mothers. It is early morning. We have been in the air all night traveling through darkness. We have left the cold and snow and the relatively flat surface of Eastern Canada behind. Now the sun has come up over the hills and the sky is clear blue. I have yet to taste the warm air. The mountains look dry and thirsty. I love mountains and I am ready to sip the nectar of Guatemala.
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