Banos, Stoves, and Other Things

Two syllables roll off the tongue much easier than five. Quetzaltenango. Xela.

Officially the city is called Quetzaltenango. Locals, residents, gringos know it as Xela. Xela is the old Mayan name. It is easier to pronounce. It's easier to type too.

Tourists do not come to visit Xela and if they do they don't spend much time. It is not as colorful as Antigua, not as lively in a touristy way, and it is a long trip by bus from the capital. Though it is four or five times as large as Antigua it has less going for it in that it is a working class city. It feels like a working class city. We have come here to work. We are going to build us some stoves. We are going to fit right in.

Like Antigua, and Guatemala City, Xela sits comfortably in a valley that is surrounded by mountains. The city center is old and roads are cobblestone and narrow. Like many a colonial Spanish city there is a grand Central Square. Businesses, restaurants, municipal buildings surround the square and interspersed throughout are residences.

During the day markets are open and busy. Men get haircuts, women drive motorcycles, school children dressed smartly in uniforms run along sidewalks. There are bakeries and cafes, clothing stores and eateries, places to buy groceries and places to buy stuff. There are factories where glass is made and garages where suspensions and brakes are repaired. Colorfully clothed Grandmothers, walk in perfect balance as they carry baskets on their heads. Men lug sacks of potatoes and stacks of fire wood. Its appeal is simple. This is the energy of  everyday life that is expressed in every city in the world.

At seven in the morning the city wakes up. We too. At eight in the morning a van appears, the same one that brought us here from Antigua, I think. We squeeze in and the van whisks us through rush hour traffic then up, up, up into the nearby mountains.

Each day we are dropped off at a different community. We divide up into crews and are assigned to work with a mason. Introductions are made with the family that live in the house that we will work in that particular day. As if by magic, tools, all the materials, barrels of water are already in place and on site. We are thankful for all the preparation the people have done before we have arrived.

The first thing we always ask is 'where is the bano?'.  If you don't know, a bano is the loo, the outhouse. It is the first word you will want to learn. The first phrase you should learn in Spanish is 'donde esta el Bano?'  'Where is the bathroom?' Not that all Mayan people of the highlands speak Spanish, but everyone seems to understand Bano. Just say 'bano', and wait for the pointing fingers.

Banos vary in construction, location, privacy. If, when, you come down with a case of the 'oh no, gotta go go's' location is far more important than privacy. Privacy is a very relative term anyway. More than once I had a beautiful 270 degree panoramic view as I sat with my knees at roughly ear level. It was a perfect opportunity to contemplate my temporal existence and feel the sun on my face. And you will only forget once that you left your roll of toilet paper back at the hotel.

The masons are the ones with all the skills. We are the grunts. I soon find out that all masons are not created equal. No complaint, just an observation. That is true in every trade; tin bangers, sparkys, plumbers, framers. I know, I'm one.

Grunts do the tedious stuff; mix mortar, sift sand, soak block, carry block, mix more mortar. It's hard work, but we pace ourselves and take turns doing this or that and rest in the shade.

Heat builds throughout the day and the sun pounds down on tin roofs. The mountain air is thin. It takes getting used to. The rooms we work in are small and dusty, the lighting poor. The ground is not level. We are on a mountain side after all and with each step you are either going up hill or down.

Sure conditions are far from ideal, but I'll take working here any day than some of the s___ holes I've worked in back in Canada. Besides the Mayan people are nice. Extremely nice. It is hard not to fall in love with them. They are a kind, generous people who are willing to share what little they have. 

A stove gets built in a day. It's not rocket science, as they say, but it is built precisely according to plan, and there is a certain order to the process that one should not deviate. The floor must be level. The block placed just so. The fire box dimensions exact. The chimney is tied in and then pokes out through the roof. And lastly, the exterior is parged to give the stove that smooth sweet finished look.

By three in the afternoon we are back on the main road and waiting for the van to pick us up. We are as tired as we are dirty and we are as happy as we are satisfied.

Back in Xela Hotel Casa Del Viajero is as about as perfect a hotel as we could ask for. It is no five star accommodation. It may not even be a three or two star, but it is clean, inexpensive and within budget. It is simple. It has ample room. We are the only guests at the moment. There is a kitchen for us to use. It is a few minutes walk from the Central Square. And best of all in the main area there is a large table where we can gather together at the end of the day. And so we do. We sit and talk. We laugh and tell stories about our day. It's how you get to know one another. Some drink beer, some sip wine. Some whine. Some don't. It is all in fun. And then, when we have recovered, and before it gets too late, too dark, we go out for dinner.

 



   

Journey to Xela

I am first to board the waiting bus. But as I stand at the open door I hesitate. I pause to take a final look at what is Antigua. I hope to remember this beautiful cartoon coloured city. I'm sure I will be back. Someday. I just don't know when. Hopefully my fond memories will not fade like a dream.

As I lean forward and step into what seems like a can with wheels I wonder if there are enough seats. Our luggage has already been stored on the roof. It is stacked in the shape of a tiny Mayan pyramid. With every person that clambers aboard the bus sinks lower until, it seems, there is little if any play in the suspension. To ease my consternation I tell myself this vanbus looks to be in better shape than ninety five percent of the vehicles that I've seen in Guatemala. I pray this may be a good thing.

I have no idea if in Guatemala there are seat belt laws, or air pollution laws, or motorcycle helmet laws, or stop sign laws, but if there are no one seems to obey them, including our driver. He hoisted himself in, did not bother to fasten the buckle, and off we went.

The bus ride took the better part of a day. Thankfully I had obtained a much desired window seat allowing me a clear view of scenic Guatemala. But a window seat can have its drawbacks, for the sun, still low, shone in upon me and the warmth made me drowsy. I had slept poorly the night before. My head bobbed and I struggled to remain awake.

Gears ground and suspension clunked with every bump in the road. I fretted and worried we were overloaded for the bus groaned and moaned as we inched our way up the face of a mountain. If this is the best we can do this is going to be one long mother of a ride. As we skirted the top of the mighty peak a snore like rumble seemed to awaken me out of my drooling slumber. A volcano erupted somewhere in the distance behind us. I turned to see a mushroom cloud rising high into the sky. Lava appeared to pour across the very road we had just traversed. All around us the ground shook, pavement cracked and lifted, and yet, like the proverbial row boat, the bus merrily rolled along.

For a time the clouds were as thick as thieves and we could not see the way forward. And the air so thin we could hardly catch our breath. Then, without warning, the road began to descend so rapidly I had a falling sensation. The over crowded bus picked up speed. I feared the tread-bare tires would blow at any moment and we would hurtle over the edge to our deaths. We squealed in unison like the team we were as the rotund little vehicle dodged potholes and sped around bends so sharp, so tight, the two inside wheels lifted off the black top. Yet almost before we knew it the road began to straighten and the land began to level and soften. The bus trundled on.

We entered a vast savanna completely void of people and homes. These sprawling empty plains were carpeted with a towering grass whose pod like tips shimmered in the faint breeze. The threatening reeds caverned the road in one long dark continuous shadow and it seemed inclined to swallow our tiny caravan. Yet the bus traveled on.

We motored silently through overgrown jungle and sailed like a clipper ship over parched desert. We came to a promontory where stood crumbling old ruins constructed, I am told, by a sapient feathered Quetzal like bird that predate humans by one hundred thousand years. At some point we stopped at a roadside cafe that was merely good, certainly not great, and, I kid you not, their bathrooms were clean and spacious.

Hats off to our bus driver who was courageous if not composed. He kept his eyes on the road throughout and I never once saw his face. He was nonplussed by the journey and took it all in stride as if it was just another day at the office. A toast to you my friend, for a job well done. 

We had made it, without mishap or incident. In spite of sleeping for a good portion of the trip it was still a long day of travel. I fell out of the bus exhausted. We all did. We hoisted our luggage onto our backs and dragged ourselves into our new accommodations, the hotel Casa del Viajero, Quetzaltenango. Better get used to it, it's home for the next eight days. Xela, we have arrived.