I left Casas Viejas on Sunday. My departure was proceeded by three days of despedidas (farewells). Luckily, Kamille came down from Coban to provide much needed moral support and help me get ready for my imminent departure. It all still seems unreal.

On Saturday Tania, Jasmine and Melissa stopped by to drop off some tamales and say goodbye. At one point Tania pulled out her phone and announced that she had a English song she wanted to play for us. The girls sang along as the tune chimed through the cell speakers. The lyrics were coincidentally very fitting, even though the girls didn't know what they were singing. I'm going to leave you all with a little video from that visit.

Before I sign off, though, I wanted to thank all of you for taking this two year journey with me. I hope you all enjoyed reading this blog as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

I’ve found music to be a friend during the pivotal moments of my Peace Corps service. Sometimes it’s an entire song, other times a lyric, a guitar chord or a single beat that has stirred my soul into finding a companion in a melody. A companion that smiles, sighs, loves, greaves and dances with my thoughts.

It’s Tupelo Honey while sitting around a fire at Kamille’s. It’s overhearing Eswin’s phone chime out Total Eclipse of My Heart with Amanda and Trish during Spanish class. It’s Barrett Bumpas channeling Bob Dylan on his guitar. It’s Damien Rice thundering through my veins while rain pounds my tin roof. It’s a classroom full of adolescents dancing to Thriller.

I’ve also realized that my most introspective hours are those spent alone, lost in my own thoughts: on the bus, sweeping my yard, in my room late at night or on a morning run. We all need these solitary moments to process life. During these occasions, I often turn to my iPod for company. Once in a while, my player will shuffle to a song that resonates so perfectly with my state of mind that the melody is forever married to that moment.

Now, as I reflect upon the past two years, I have found it fitting to return to the tunes that have accompanied me through my service to help me make sense of it all. I want you to be able to relive these musical moments with me, so we are going to try a little experiment. Play the below and continue to read. Hopefully, I’ve timed this correctly. And as a tip, if you get to a lyric I’ve written down, try to read it along with the song.

Sorry for those of you with a slow internet connection.

I first want to take you back to the summer of 2005 so as to explain what brought me here in the first place. I was an advertising executive still “green behind the ears”, as Bob Wilson, one of my clients and the owner of Fresno Lincoln Mercury, would say. At the time, I was proud of my work accomplishments and loved the people I worked with, but felt a persistent emptiness. I had an unsettling feeling that my career path was not aligned with my passions or aspirations. Every morning I’d get up, get dressed, drive to work, do the daily grind, drive home, eat, sleep and repeat. One particular afternoon, while stuck in traffic (which was every afternoon), the speakers on my Mercury Mariner sang:

I got no time

That I got to get

To where I don't need to be

Those lyrics grabbed me. I, like Jack Johnson, felt lost in a meaningless hustle. Why was I dedicating my time and energy to selling cars? My discontent stemmed from working towards something that I wasn’t passionate about. It was terribly ironic that I was “moving metal” when I, in fact, felt everyone should be riding public transit.

Soon thereafter, I found a new job on the Lexus account, convinced that the Japanese manufacturer was more environmentally conscious, and therefore, I’d get more satisfaction out of my work. Foolish me. The switch was futile. I needed out of automotive advertising all together.

In 2009 I applied to the Peace Corps and as soon as the acceptance letter arrived, I said good-bye to my working life as I had known it.

The switch was not always easy. Many people questioned (especially my grandfather), “Why on earth would you quit a perfectly good, well paying job to join the Peace Corps?” It didn’t help that we were in the midst of the recession. People were getting laid off and I was quitting?

I had many long conversations with my mom reassuring her that the Peace Corps was not a dead end, but a means to a new beginning. I remember her saying, “I know you’re going to end up fine, I just want you to think critically about this decision. Just make sure this is really what you want to do with your life.”

Her concern was not unfounded. I have a history of dabbling. When I was eight I was the only girl in jazz class shuffle-ball-changing in tennis shoes because I had to participate in an activity for five months before she would purchase any specialized equipment. She was worried that the Peace Corps was just another phase. During this time, I resonated with the lyrics:

I can say I hope it will be worth what I give up

If I could stand up mean for the things that I believe

I eventually convinced my mom that I was making the right decision and she gave me her whole hearted support, as she always has (love you, mom).

When I arrived in Guatemala, I was content with the change of course my life had taken.

Still, progress with work and integrating into my community was slow. I had to take the good with the bad. I had days when I felt alienated and days that I beamed with joy. Through the process I learned a lot, but it took returning to Guatemala from a trip to the U.S. to let my experiences distill.

It was August and after having spent weeks in California, the bus ride back to site was particularly poignant. The difference between my life in The States, my life as it used to be, and the new life I lived was shocking but satisfying. I sat on that bus, listening to music and stared out at the lush green flood planes that make up the landscape en route to Casas Viejas. I reveled in the realization that over the past year I had become more patient, more humble and had a better understanding of what really matters in life. I had undergone a personal growth that I would never have achieved in my prior life in Los Angeles. I knew that not many people would be able to relate to this, but I was OK with that.

I flashed through recent memories. My women’s group loving a salad recipe that didn’t include mayonnaise. School kids filing into my English class saying, “Good morning, teacher.” Adan teaching bookkeeping techniques that I had taught him to a new shopkeeper. A song on my ipod rang true:

Oh, This has got to be the good life.

This has got to be the good life

This could really be the good life.

Good Life.

And, it was. In that moment I knew that I had found the meaning and substance that was lacking in my work before the Peace Corps.

The months continued to roll by and I became more and more involved and immersed in my community. I had time to strengthen the relationships I had made with friends in my town and in the Peace Corps community. I had found my place, realizing:

You're already home where you feel loved

Now that I have found a home in Guatemala and a family in the people of Casas Viejas, the thought of leaving is bitter sweet.

This fall I start graduate studies at Columbia's School of International and Public Affairs. Another two year adventure awaits me. I’ll be graduating with a Masters in Public Administration with a concentration in Urban and Social Policy. I want to focus on the roles energy and the environment play in urban development (especially in transit). No more selling cars. See, mama, not just a phase.

Truth is, I have mixed feelings about the transition from Guatemala to New York City. I think I am underestimating the emotions I have tied up in this beautiful country that I have called home for the past 24 months. It's hard for me to believe that this is not going to be my life in a few weeks. That it'll never be the same. This realization is making me consciously appreciate the little time I do have left, though. It's hard to balance these emotions with the excitement of my life’s next step.

I won't be moving back to LA so I can't expect things to be the way they were when I left two years ago- everything has changed, myself included. I’m going to have to make myself a new home. Once again find my place in this crazy world. Luckily, my brother, sister and some great friends live in the city and nearby in Philly (that’s you, Jules). I'm looking forward to strengthening those relationships. I was processing all of these thoughts while sweeping the dust from my kitchen floor when Bob Dylan asked me:

How does it feel

How does it feel

To be without a home

Like a complete unknown

Like a rolling stone?

I guess I’m a little scared, but mostly excited. New York holds future friends, more learning and a new type of discovery.

Still, I will forever appreciate the simple, comfortable life I have led here. It may take time to get used to not hearing small Guatemalan children yell my name while walking the streets. I’ll miss Marena’s shucos and Doña Leti’s fresh cheese. Flor will no longer be there to greet me through a chain link fence. The Super Niña bus driver won’t wave to me on my morning runs. I won’t be gifted mangos by the dozen.

I’ll have to get used to the cold and the bustle of city life. But, if I ever need to return to Guatemala, I’ll put on these songs and listen to:

them when (I) forget (what I) left here.

I can’t sleep. I got into bed, watched Airplane, played a few, alright, a dozen hands of vacation solitaire on my Nokia phone, even brought my guitar into bed and strummed away until my fingers began to sting.

For the past few months the holy bible has been my cure for the occasional nighttime case of insomnia. Tonight, I’d rather not pick it up- too much bloodshed, burnt offerings and judgement for this rainy evening. To clarify, I am reading the old testament, figured it’s the one I should start with. I’ve found it to be a very depressing read, my heart sinks a little bit every time a city is burned and it’s inhabitants, men, women and children are all slaughtered. Where is the love? I want to skip to that chapter. So, this eve, the good book has been kept shut and placed on my lap where it is kindly propping up my computer as I type away.

I really haven’t thought this post through yet, so I guess I’ll just tell you about my day. Woke up, did a little 30-day shred exercise sesh with Julian Michaels, showered and brought a load of laundry to Mirna’s house. They got a washing machine in January and have let me do a few loads in exchange for explaining to them how to operate the appliance. You try explaining the “hand wash” cycle to a Guatemalan housewife that bought a washing machine precisely so that she wouldn’t have to hand wash. Not easy. So, ever since they got the washer, I’ve been alternating between hand and machine washing. If I have calculated properly, and don’t have any major stain mishaps, this will have been the last day I will have to do my laundry in Guatemala. Next week, I’ll be home for my brother’s wedding (yay! can’t wait- Yosemite here we come.) When I get back to Guatemala on the 3rd, I’ll have 14 days remaining as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I definitely have enough clothes and undies to keep me fresh for those last two weeks. It may seem strange that I am divulging this information but, you must realize that, aside from the produce section at Whole Foods, the washer and dryer are the material things I miss most about the States. My last wash was a big deal.

It was quarter to 1:00 when I had all my clothes hung up on the line to dry. Time to watch the Women’s World Cup final. I don’t own a TV so I went over to Fernando and Seño Lili’s house to watch the match. I could hear sportscasters calling the game through open doors and windows as I made my way through the dirt streets to their house. I couldn’t help but think, “there are probably more Guatemalan’s watching this game than Americans.” I hope was wrong. When I got to the house Mattihus was in the living room with remote in hand switching between the USA v. Japan woman’s game and Brazil v. Paraguay men’s match. I took a seat on the couch and started watching but quickly became frustrated by the constant channel changing. Before the first half was over I decided to depart and watch the women’s game at my next door neighbor Flor’s house. It seemed more fitting to watch the woman’s world cup with a woman, anyway. I made it to her house, invited myself in and plopped down on the end of her bed and watched the match while she spent the next 20 minutes putting on make-up. I asked if she was getting ready to pasear (go out), but, she said, “No”. Maybe it’s just her daily routine.

I’ll go ahead and fast forward 130 minutes to me, with fly swatter in hand, taking out my frustration with the US’s loss on the mosquitos in my shower stall. After I had killed all the skeeters I could find, I let off more steam by washing dirty dishes. It turned out to be a very productive afternoon.

At 4pm I made my way over to El Rinconcito de Mario, the town restaurant next door to Seño Maritza’s house. There the preschool was celebrating “Dia de la Familia” (Family Day). Maritza had asked me to stop by and play a song on my guitar for the kids and their parents. Before I got my guitar out, though, I was called on stage to participate in a dance competition. Side note: I’ve garnered some local fame for the Shakira dance moves I displayed in a dance competition at Brenda’s baby shower. I won that competition, and today’s as well. Guatemalan’s love watching a white girl dance. The prize was a red cylindrical plastic container.

Directly following the dance-off, I was called on stage to perform with my guitar. I dar-ed (gave) a few palabras (words) before I played. I wanted to thank them for being my Guatemalan family. I got a little choked up and realized this saying good-bye thing isn’t going to get any easier. I also took the opportunity to make it be known that it was the first time I had ever played for a crowd, along with a pre-performance apology for singing in English. It went all-right. I messed up the lyrics a few times but it didn’t matter much because no one knew what I was saying anyway. They were a very forgiving audience. I guess I couldn’t have been all that bad because they did ask for an encore performance.

At 7pm I was back at home, made dinner, dilly-dallied, got into bed, watched Airplane, played a few, alright, a dozen, hands of vacation solitaire on my Nokia phone, even brought my guitar into bed and strummed away until my fingers began to sting...

I just got back from a cost of production meeting to see how the pollo frito (fried chicken) business is shaping up. It was there that I discovered the Q10,000 loan they took out to invest in the venture was done in the same manor as the loan they took out with Adan. Q500 monthly flat interests until the loan can be paid off in full. I was so visibly upset I think I scared the women. I'm still so upset, I'm ravishing a bag of Trader Joe's trail mix right now.

Damn it. After all those discussions I had with them regarding Adan's loan, I thought something had stuck. I'm heartbroken... and now, out of trail mix.

Last week, Seño Maritza was showing signs of anxiety. The root of her worries stemmed from a trip she had to take to the capital this past Friday. A trip she had to take on a bus all by her lonesome. Well, she’d be accompanied by the bus driver, an ayudante (the guy that takes your fare) and a hoard of other passengers. There in that “hoard” of passengers lies the problem. They are all strangers and strangers can’t be trusted. Each unfamiliar face poses a risk. Anyone of them could be eying her purse or even be armed and prepared to loot the entire bus.

Assaults on buses are not rare here, especially in the capital, so her worries were not unfounded.

While Friday neared, Maritza made multiple mentions in conversation about her forthcoming trip, “¡... y tengo que ir solita, AYE NO, como me da miedo!” (And I have to go all alone, OH NO, how it gives me fright!).

For me, Friday came and went like any other day in site. I didn’t see Maritza until Saturday morning when I dropped by her house to give her photocopies of the salina profit analysis. Her son, Rene, let me in and I walked to the back of the house. It was there that I realized Maritza was showering. To kill some time I checked in on our tomato plants (we’ve got one of Kamille’s hanging plants set up in her yard- it’s flowering!), When Maritza got out of the shower she walked out in her towel, gave her usual salutations and headed into her bedroom, where she proceeded to talk to me through closed door.

I asked her how her trip to the capital went and she delved into a long explanation:

You shoulda seen how afraid I was! I go to the capital, you know, but, never alone! I got up at 2am and was in the capital by 7am. Then I took a cab to meet my sister-in-law. I did it all without any problem! We did errands together but then she left me when I had to fix some papers for work. When I was done I asked a police officer how to get to the inner city bus and he explained to me where to go. Then I took another bus to get back to CENMA. From there made it to Esquintla, where I took a cab to the hospital because Marta Lidia’s daughter is sick and I promised I’d check in on her...

At this point, she reappeared clothed and continued to tell the story while rubbing her hair dry with a towel.

... I was back in Chiqui at 3pm and went to the accountant. I finally made it to Casas Viejas on the Princesita (name of a bus).

One is afraid to do things they don’t know about, but, you know what? Before I left I thought to myself, “Annalisa travels all over without any problem. She just hops on a bus and goes from here to there and everywhere.” I even thought about how you travel to foreign countries and get around. And here I am, in my own country, and I’m afraid to travel a few hours. I thought, “If Annalisa can do it, so can I.” You served as my inspiration.

I puffed out my chest and thought to myself, “Annalisa Liberman, Peace Corps extraordinaire. Empowering women in developing nations. My work here is done... It only took two years.”

p.s. Over 4th of July weekend Kamille and I took a fabulous day trip to Copán, Honduras. If you'd like to read about it, check out Kamille's blog.

Quierido Trader Jose,

Allow me to introduce myself, I am Annalisa Brown Liberman, your best Guatemala- based customer, ever. For nearly two years I have been living in rural Guatemala as a Sustainable Agriculture Peace Corps Volunteer. Ever since my arrival on August 12, 2009 my father and friends have faithfully sent me dozens of bulging yellow manilla padded envelopes filled with Trader Joe’s treats. I don’t know how I would have survived these past two years without them.

I want to personally thank you for your toothsome trail mixes and delectable dried fruit. I have tasted and loved them all. I have particularly savored your Macadamia Mix Gingerly with Cranberries and Almond, Sweet & Savory and Tempting trail/trek mixes. However, nothing has tantalized my taste buds more than your Just Mangos dried mangos. I especially enjoy the packages filled with deep marigold colored slices picked ripe from Mexico or Thailand. The Columbian variety, for some reason, are never quite as as sweet and juicy.

Today, I was enjoying a package of Just Mangos in my cinderblock casita while rain outside made rivers of the town’s dirt streets. As I chewed to the pitter-patter of drops on the tin roof, I wondered just how many of Joe’s Just Mangos and trail mixes I have consumed as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I did a rough calculation and came up with over 100 packages.

I currently have two packages of Just Mangos and two trail mixes left in my reserves. These were sent by my father in a package I received June 8th. I have since told him to send no more, for my Peace Corps service ends August 17th and I will soon be able to roam the isles of Trader Joe’s on my own. Free to pick out only the juiciest, most golden Just Mango packages in the store. I can’t wait.

Once again, gracias Trader Jose. You have made my Peace Corps experience quite a treat!

Un fuerte abrazo (a big hug) from your devoted patron,

Annalisa

On a large 24”x18” piece of yellow construction paper I made a table seven columns by eight rows. Fifty-six boxes. One for each day of service I have left in the Peace Corps. I labeled the columns with days of the week and grouped the rows into June, July and August. I titled the poster, “Calendario de Proyectos con Annalisa” (Calendar of Projects with Annalisa).

I began to populate the calendar with my remaining projects, trips away from site and daily obligations. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, 3:40-4:50 English classes at Basico with Jeny. Completion of Service Medical Appointments in Antigua June 22-24. Women’s group cooking class: Pizza and planting tomato seeds, 3pm Saturday, June 25. Inventory review workshop, 5pm Wednesday, June 29. Pollo Xinca Cost of Production Analysis, Saturday, July 9... the table slowly filled up. When it was done, I taped it to the Coca Cola display fridge in the coop tienda and shared it with the socios at a meeting on Monday.

As I plan my last projects, I also have to figure out how to wrap up my service with a healthy sense of closure. My dad has coached me on this phase of my Peace Corps service. A phase that he refers to, in psychiatrist jargon, as the ‘termination period.’ Over one particularly long phone conversation about a month ago he explained this critical stage of decathecting to me. I was on one end of the line swaying in my hammock while he was on the other end, presumably, sitting in his swiveling office chair. “The termination period is a period of separation between a doctor and patient,” he began. “At the end of a treatment, a physician must work with the patient to show their time together was effective in treating the illness and that the patient is capable of sustaining his recovery even after he is not under the direct care of the physician...” (Did I paraphrase correctly, Papa? “Close enough,” as you might say.)

In any regard, the take away I got was that these last few months of service is a time for me to reflect with the cooperative on all of the work we have done together and the progress we have made. It is also a time to discuss how to sustain these improvements even after my departure. I have taken his advice to heart and have started reflecting on my service with the Coop socios. The presence of my bright yellow calendar stands as a reminder that my days with the coop are limited and has allowed me to ease into ‘termination period’ conversations. Sometimes, however, I contemplate, between myself and the cooperative, who is the doctor and who is the patient. For, I, most certainly, will come out of this experience the most changed.

I've done this before. Too lazy to write a post so I'm going to copy and paste an email I wrote to my big brother, Peter, last night.

---------------

I am writing this email using a battery powered lantern that Dad sent me in one of his many packages. I usually reserve this light for night time showering. The electricity has been out for the past hour so it's working overtime tonight. Luckily, I still have 2 hours 29 minutes left on my Mac battery and my internet runs through the cell tower. We get blackouts about five times a week during the rainy season. It's not raining right now, so I am not sure what caused it this time. To be honest, though, I really enjoy the still darkness.

Guatemala is a very noisy country. At all hours there are drivers blaring banda music out their car windows, motorcycles revving their engines, neighbors watching telenovelas at maximum volume, kids screaming, parents reprimanding, kids then crying. It all blends together to form a constant hum of background distraction. I liken it to an audio equivalent of the visual overload in Times Square.

In contrast, when the lights are out, it's peaceful. I can hear the crickets and frogs and even my elderly next door neighbor plucking away at his guitar. Right now, he is playing Mary Had a Little Lamb. Every once in a while, the lights will flicker on for a millisecond and there are shouts of joy that echo throughout the town. But, all goes dark again, and all goes silent. My neighbor will then switch to playing Cielito Lindo or Happy BIrthday. I wonder if he has a book or is just playing from memory. I can picture him behind those blank cinderblock walls, sitting in his room, on a wood chair, strumming his guitar by candle light, thinking that no one is listening. Or, maybe, he knows I am home, and is playing for me.

I now have 2:09 left on my battery. Peace Corps tells us to conserve energy when the lights go out. We never can be sure of when they are going to come back on. Shut down...

Wednesday evening I finished the last of seven trainings on 10 fundamentals of business that I conducted with the coop. The final topic we reviewed was “Promote your business.” Three days later, the coop put this principle into practice.

Saturday was the inauguration of Pollo Xinca, the coop’s latest business venture. In light of what they learned during our workshop, the coop decided to promote their business with a “Buy two or more pieces of fried chicken, get a soda for free. (while supplies last)” offer on opening day.

In Guatemala development may be slow but, work, straight-up labor, can happen lickety-split. Take, for instance, Pollo Xinca. The cooperative may still struggle to define its purpose and benefit its members yet, they can successfully whip up fried chicken operation in about one month’s time. Here is a quick outline of the idea through to fruition time-frame:

May 6: Maritza announces she has found someone who will lend her Q10,000 to start-up the fried chicken business. I must note that this loan will work much like a typical bank loan- paying off the capital and interest at the same time. I’ve drilled it into them to NEVER take another loan like the mess they got themselves into with Adan.

May 27: The men dig a well and instal a motor to pump fresh water into a pila/sink in the back of the tienda.

May 28: Tienda is rearranged to allow a section of the store to be occupied by the fried chicken business. The men create an awning over the pila in the back of the tienda.

May 31: Fryer, freezer and display case are delivered from the capital.

June 2: Electric outlets and lighting are installed in the Pollo Xinca section of the store. Cement is laid on a section of the store that had a dirt floor.

June 3: Outside of the store and Pollo Xinca area are whitewashed.

June 4: 8:00 am, women begin to decorate the tienda.

June 4: 12:00 pm, Eddy from Fedacop teaches Emerson, Pollo Xinca’s ‘chef’, how to fry chicken and french fries.

June 4: 1:50 pm, Eddy presides over a prayer around the fryer, asking God to bless Pollo Xinca.

June 4: 2:15 pm, first five pieces of fried chicken are sold.

June 4: 6:00 pm, Over 200 pieces of chicken sold and the last of 60 promotional sodas was given away.

I had just gotten back to the Coop after picking mangos with Don Fernando when Don Simon pulled up in a beat-up red pick-up and called me to his side window.

“The guys want to know if you can go to Sarampaña to do accounts.”

Since December, once a month, I have been meeting with the six socios who decided to take over the salina (saltworks) to review income and expenses.

I grabbed my bag, hopped in the truck and asked, “Did you guys sell all the salt?”

“Yes, and now we want to see how we stand.”

We pulled up to Don Beto’s house and there sat the five other socios: Toribio, Don Edgar, Don Jaime, Jose Angel and Don Beto. They stared at us from a semi-circle of plastic chairs planted awkwardly in the sand.

I climbed down from the pick-up and greeted them with a, “Buenas tardes.” They pulled up an empty seat and I sat waiting for someone to speak. Toribio began, “We are finished with the salinas this year and now we want you to help us figure out how to divide up the money.”

For the next hour we crunched numbers. Our discussion was punctuated with back and forths about who had already been paid for hauling salt, who had put in extra funds for this-and-that, who had been reimbursed for such-and-such. At every point of disagreement I took the opportunity to remind them, “If you had written this all down, you wouldn’t be having this argument.” They always agreed.

It takes time to change habits and I’m just glad I convinced Jose Angel, who was managing the salinas, to carry a notebook with him at all times. He recorded “most” transactions.

In the end, we calculated that the Salina had brought in a little over Q2,000 ($250) in profits for the year. To be divided up between the six men. This may not seem like much but, considering last year the Cooperative lost about Q40,000 in the Salinas, coming out ahead this year was a huge gain.

The difference between the two year’s outcomes lays largely in the price of salt. Last year, the Coop was selling a quintal of salt for Q15 or Q17. In English, 100 lbs of salt for $2. Amazing, right? This year, we were able to sell our salt at Q25. The increase in the price of salt, coupled with a slightly lower start-up cost, helped the guys come out ahead. The good weather conditions this year (less rain) didn't hurt either. I'm also going to go ahead and attribute some of the success to better management of the operation. Last year, it was impossible to assemble the associates to review expenses. This year we met monthly, without complaint. This forced the group to be accountable and scrutinize their spending.

At the end of the meeting, Toribio divided up the cash, setting aside Q200 for a celebratory lunch of fried shrimp, which they invited me to partake in tomorrow, insisting that the shrimp be accompanied by a “cervecita” (little beer). I didn’t contest.

Last Sunday my next door neighbor Milbia yelled to me from the chain link fence that separates my back yard from her kitchen.

“Annalisa?”

“Hey Milbia, what’s up?”

“Would you do me the favor of letting me borrow your computer? Ours isn’t working right now and I need to do a paper for the U.”

Just this year Milbia started taking Saturday classes at the local University. This is no small feat for a 28-year-old single mother of two young kids (Benicio and Leslie). Most women in her situation become comfortable tending the house and lack the confidence and motivation to make their personal growth a priority. I was happy to supply my computer for her schoolwork needs, anything to help along her success story.

Later that afternoon, Milbia and a classmate of hers came to my house and I set them up on my computer. As I tended to my housework: sweeping, dusting and washing clothes; Milbia dictated from a bound report and her friend typed.

“Diariamente, miles de niños y niñas en Guatemala viven el problema del maltrato infantil...” (Daily, thousands of Guatemalan boys and girls suffer from child abuse...)

At one point the typist took a break and I took the opportunity to comment on their report.

“You guys are writing a paper on child abuse?”

“Yes, but it’s already written, we just have to retype it.”

“It looks pretty nice in that folio you already have. Why do you have to retype it?”

“Well, we didn’t write this, we are just copying it.”

I grabbed the paper bound report they had been dictating from and sure enough, it had worn out dirty edges and was written by other students with a previous year’s due date. The first thing I wondered was, "Did the students, whose names are on the bound copy, write this or copy it?"

This wasn’t my first experience with students here “pidiendo copias” (asking to copy). When helping Jenny correct English homework, I noticed trends in sentences. “Trends” might be generous, an entire class would turn in verbatim assignments. As if they were little Guatemalan xerox machines. And, Selvin, who used to work at the minibank, would make extra cash by doing kids homework on the Coop’s computer- mostly just copying paragraphs from Wikipedia en Español.

I am frustrated by the Guatemalan educational system. If this country is ever to develop and prosper its students must be empowered to think critically and cultivate their own imagination. It doesn’t surprise me that in any Guatemalan town you will find three panadarias (bakeries) making the same tasteless bread; or fifteen corner stores selling the same cornflakes, sugar and refried beans that the tienda down the street sells. It’s a copy culture. The education system doesn’t encourage kids to take risks and think for themselves so why would they as adults?

When I found out that Milbia was copying, I became upset. Doesn’t she realize the only person she is cheating is herself? “You know,” I said to her, “if a student in the U.S. is caught copying, they can be kicked out of school.” I didn’t receive the shocked reaction I was hoping for.

I wasn't shocked.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution." - Albert Einstein

Sorry, neither Leslie nor Benicio make an appearance in this clip (they are catholic), but I have another video for more your listening rather than viewing pleasure (had some camera focusing issues).

Sunday night, inspired by the preacher whose resounding loudspeaker sermon infiltrated my casita, I decided to make another video to share with you guys. While on this little mission, I received an unexpected invitation from Selvin (who used to work at the Coop's Minibank) to attend the culto (evangelical sermon) that I was filming. Please take special note of the singing in the background.

Transcription:

(English)

Annalisa: What's up?

Jesmely: Huh?

Annalisa: What's up?

Jesmely: Good.

(Selvin enters off screen)

Annalisa: Hi! How are you?

Selvin: Good

Annalisa: You're here to go to church?

Selvin: Enter. (asking me to go into the church)

Annalisa: Ah, no. I just want to... I'm just here to, uhhhhhhh.

Selvin: Enter.

Annalisa: OK.

Selvin: Go ahead

Annalisa: OK Thanks

Annalisa: (to the doorman- yes, culto has a bouncer): Hello.

And that was just the beginning...

Below is the house tour grand finale. But, before we get to it, I have a few updates:

Blog by Bullets

☀ I learned yesterday that the Coop has taken out a legit bank loan to pay off Adan’s "predatory" loan. The new Q10,000 loan will be paid off, interest and principle, in two years, or so I’ve been told. Adan received his Q10,000 principal payment in one lump sum on Saturday. To date, Adan has reaped Q10,500 in straight gains from his loan. A 105% return on his investment. He will no longer be taking Q500 monthly "interest" payments from the tienda. Thank God.

☀ At the same time, the Coop took out another Q10,000 loan to start a fried chicken business. So help me God.

☀ While talking on the Coop stoop, Don Alfonso informed me that you can rub a live toad's belly on your shin to cure a gimp leg. However, after you get the toad slime rubbed in real good you must immediately put the creature back in water or it doesn't work. Animal rights DO exist here, after all... The procedure gave birth to the saying, “Saque el sapo.” (Grab the toad) when discussing what to do with a hurt leg.

☀ Yesterday, the school kids and I transplanted a tomato plant seedling to an upside-down hanging carton. Photos to come. We are waiting on the two other surviving seedlings to grow big enough to transplant as well. The kids are looking forward to their chirmol (a typical salsa made with tomatoes). After losing dozens of seedlings, I’m thinking in baby steps. Tomatoes first, salsa later.

☀ Last week, I visited Jenny and her new baby boy, Nicolas.

☀ Saturday, I visited Brenda and her new baby boy, Adrian.

☀ Sunday, I visited Eslin and her new baby girl, name tbd.

☀ Leslie + Benicio Explore the Kitchen, Part 6

Transcription:

Annalisa: The kitchen. What do we have in the kitchen?

Leslie: Dishes

Annalisa: Dishes, what else?

Leslie: A table

Annalisa: A table, what else?

Leslie: Some bottles.

Annalisa: bottles, what else? What is this? (pointing to the refrigerator)

Leslie: This is a blender.

Annalisa: This is a blender, what is below? A fridge!

Leslie: A fridge.

(English)

Leslie: This is the water.

Annalisa: Water, purified water.

Leslie: Bottle.

Annalisa: Oil.

Leslie: Oil, and what else?

Annalisa: A lot more. Peanut butter, soy sauce, honey....

Annalisa: What is this? (pointing at honey)

Leslie: To put on food.

Annalisa: OK, what else do we have in the house?

Leslie: In the house we have... (no idea what she is mumbling)... Benicio... (no idea what she is mumbling)... I say.

Annalisa: I think we are finished. Do you want to do a dance or say goodbye to the camera?

Leslie + Benicio: goodbye!

I found a way to compress the video files and was able to put the remaining parts on two videos. Here is the first, enjoy!

Transcription:

(Mostly english)

Annalisa: I'm speaking in English and it's difficult to understand, huh?

Leslie: (nods)

Annalisa: Why aren't you talking? Here is the bathroom.

Leslie: The bathroom

Annalisa: And this, what is this?

Leslie: A sprinkler.

Annalisa: A sprinkler, A shower.

Leslie: A shower.

(English)

Annalisa: What else is there, Benicio? A kitchen?

Leslie: A kitchen.

Annalisa: Let's go to the kitchen.

Leslie: OK

Two notes:

1. The bottles stuffed with trash are used by other volunteers in their Bottle School Projects. Check it out: http://www.hugitforward.com/page/show/1/n-a

2. I failed to show you the amazing thatched roof "rancho" that I have. The roof, made of palm leaves. covers the area where my hammocks and kitchen reside- keeps the space shaded and (relatively) cool during the heat of the day.

Transcription:

Annalisa: Here they are!

Annalisa: Can you do the tour, please?

Kids: silence

Annalisa: Show us the bathroom.

Kids: silence

Annalisa: Leslie, where is the bathroom?

Leslie: silence

Annalisa: Where is the bathroom?

Leslie: silence

Annalisa: Over there? (pointing to the bathroom)

Leslie: Over there.

Annalisa: Yes, let's go.

Leslie: Yes.

Transcription:

Leslie: You can't get the key?

Annalisa: Here it is.

Annalisa: You guys go on in, go on in*. I'll find you on the other side.

The rest is more or less in English.

*cultural note: "Pasen adelante" (literally translates to pass ahead) is a common phrase in Guatemala. A proper exchange when one enters a home unfolds like this.

Visitor seeking entry, before crossing the threshold, will ask, "Con permiso?" (With permission?)

The proprietor of the house will then respond, "Pase Adelante." (Come on in.)

I apologize for the annoying sing-song manner in which I state the phrase- it's a habit i've picked up from Seño Maritza.

While back in the States I received a few requests for a tour of my house. I've enlisted the help of my friendly neighbors, Leslie and Benicio, to help guide you through my casita. Since my internet is sluggish, I'll be uploading clips in a 12 part series. Here is your introduction:

Saturday I returned to Casas Viejas from my vacation in The States. Aside from the sweltering heat, it felt good to be back. I got settled and cleaned the dust from my house with the help of my neighbor, Flor, who appeared, unsolicited, at my doorstep with broom and mop in hand seconds after I unlocked my front door. I assume she had been watching the dirt pile up from her side of the fence for the past three weeks. After taking care of housekeeping, I headed to the cooperative tienda to catch up with the socios. I ran into Seño Lili while walking through the center of town.

“I was wondering when you were coming back. Have you passed by the coop yet?” She asked with a hint of mischievousness.

“I got back today. No, I haven’t been to the coop, but I’m on my way now.” I replied now warily wondering why she asked about the tienda.

“We have a new employee.” She explained

Turns out Misely, “no quiso seguir.” (didn’t want to continue working). The reason most of our prior employees gave for leaving.

I guess some things never change.

When I arrived at the coop I found Diana, our new shopkeeper. She seemed oddly excited to see me even though we had never met. I introduced myself and got to chatting. Shortly thereafter, Don Adan arrived at the store. This surprised me because the new vigilance committee members had been voted in prior to my departure and he technically no longer was responsible for the management of the store. I asked him if he had been coming while I was away and he told me that he had been helping with the training of the new vigilance committee and with Diana. He said this with a sense of pride that I hadn’t expected from him.

“How have the other members taken to the training?” I asked.

“Really well, both Elias and Tila come everyday and work on the accounts. The only trouble we are having is with Elias, his handwriting looks like the letters are going to fall off the page.” He said this while impersonating a tipping letter “C.” “I keep telling him, ‘Elias, you better fix your handwriting because when Annalisa comes back she isn’t going to be able to read your drunken letters.”

I liked that he had used me as a threat.

We then started to work on the daily closing. I grabbed the inventory books to enter the purchases and losses (expired tomatoes etc.) for the day. I opened the book and found the inventory and monthly profits from sales, which is done every first of the month, completed. I was astonished. I have been working with the coop on this inventory system for the past year. Never have they done the tabulations without my help. In fact, if I have a meeting at the Peace Corps office and am not in town on the first, they have always just waited to do inventory until I get back. This month, they did it all on their own.

I guess some things do change.

p.s. Jenny gave birth to a baby boy today! Nicolas. He’s reportedly healthy, 8 lbs and VERY white. I’ll meet him tomorrow.

p.s.s. I’d like to share with you a little joke that Adan told me about a recent U-20 World Cup qualifier soccer match between Guatemala and the United States. Guatemala, to most Guatemalan’s surprise, beat the U.S. 2-1. Adan had this to say about the match:

“Both sides cried at the end of the game. The U.S. because they lost and Guatemala because the won. I still can’t believe we won, the U.S. had a GOOOOOD team. I think of it this way, The U.S. doesn’t permit Guatemalans to enter their country, so Guatemala doesn’t permit the U.S. to enter the World Cup.”

I was getting blank stares from a sea of uniformed fifteen-year-olds as I fumbled through explaining how AIDS doesn’t actually kill an infected person- opportunistic infections are what inevitably brings about the demise of the patient. It was a struggle. I felt like I was explaining the process well but I didn’t get a single reassuring nod from the crowd. I hesitated and then turned to Oscar Ruben, my counterpart for the HIV/AIDS training I was conducting, for help. In previous sessions he was quick to jump in and eloquently state what my spanish language deficiency prohibited me from spitting out. Not that day. I glanced over to the side of the room where he was standing silently and noticed he didn’t jump in to save me because he was otherwise occupied. Occupied texting on his Blackberry. If he had taken a second to look up from his mobile device he would have seen the look of, “are you f-ing kidding me?” on my face. Excuse the profanity but I want to be honest to my true state of mind in that moment. It seems not even the third world can escape the digital world.

Oscar Ruben never did look up from his phone so I continued to explain myself in circles until I asked the students, “Understand? Clear as water?” And the responded with a resounding, “Sí.” We ended up wrapping up the training with much success, despite Oscar Ruben’s diminishing interest. In three days we gave three HIV/AIDS education and prevention training sessions to the entire high school- a total of 79 students.

Throughout the process I was surprised at how easy it was for me to talk about sex in front of a classroom full of pubescents. Every time I had to say, “secreciones vaginales,” I thought to myself, “those words would not roll so easily off my tongue if I was speaking in English.” Maybe they would, I just never have had the opportunity to test it out.

My favorite part of the sessions was a question and answer period. Right after an activity we did acting out how HIV attacks white blood cells, I’d give each student a piece of blank paper and ask that they write a question on it. Any question pertaining to HIV/AIDS or sexual activity in general. I received a lot of broken/ripped condom questions, a few asking for the symptoms of HIV/AIDS and even one that asked if a girl could get HIV from having sex with a 40 year old man. I’m still a little worried about the girl that asked that question.

The purpose of conducting HIV/AIDS training is to educate the adolescent population on the disease, how it is transmitted, how it can be prevented and to discredit stereotypes about the disease. A secondary benefit of these sessions is to allow the teenagers to speak openly about sexual reproduction and the inherent risks of being sexually active. The sessions in themselves were truly gratifying however, there was one moment, outside of the classroom that I am most proud of.

During the question and answer session of our first training, Oscar Ruben took charge of reading the papers and I did the answering. Nearing the end of the pile he picked up the following question and read it aloud, “Can HIV be sexually transmitted from male to male?” I could tell the question made him uneasy- homosexuality is a touchy subject in Guatemala. It pained me to watch him read it through and then it broke my heart to hear him squeak a little uncomfortable giggle after the question. He did this in front of the entire classroom. Not the best behavior for promoting tolerance. I resolved to have a discussion with him before the next session.

The next day before our second training I pulled Oscar Ruben aside and told him that I thought we did a wonderful job the day before, the kids seemed really receptive, blah, blah blah... there is only one thing we need to watch out for today.

“We have to remain completely professional, especially during the question period, I noticed yesterday you laughed when reading the question about HIV being transmitted between two men.”

“I did?” He responded with seemingly genuine astonishment.

“We can’t laugh at any question especially ones pertaining to homosexuality because if there is a homosexual in the class we don’t want to make them feel uncomfortable. We need to be completely accepting and professional. If you don’t feel comfortable reading those questions, let me know because I can read them instead.”

“No,” he replied, “I can do it.”

Sure enough, during the second session we received a question identical to the one Oscar had laughed at the day before. As he breezed through the papers at the onset of the answer session I saw him move the question from the middle of the stack to the end. When it finally came up, the slip of paper gently rattled in his quivering hand. However, he read the question aloud in a completely unwavering voice. “Can HIV be sexually transmitted from one man to another?” No giggle.

We both gave a sigh of relief.

Way back in December, the Guatemalan government began a two month state of siege against narco traffickers in the Alta Verapaz region of Guatemala. Peace Corps evacuated all volunteers from that region. Lucky for me, Alta (as the volunteers there call it) is on the opposite side of the country from Casas Viejas and, double lucky for me, my friend Kamille who lives there decided to take refuge in my site. Kamille is an agriculture volunteer too, but her part of the program involves food security, ie family gardens, nutrition classes etc. While she waited out the unrest we went to work on a Cooperativa Xinca garden.

We chose the site of the garden. It wasn't up for debate because our plan

was two fold. First, clean up the back yard of the tienda which, unfortunately, served as a not-so clandestine trash dump, slash, town eye soar. The previous renters decided that leaving half burnt, quasi buried trash in a heaping pile in their yard was adequate disposal. The space was decrepit and Kamille, with her green thumb, was the remedy. After the clean up the second step was to beautify it with a garden. A project we hoped would instil a sense of pride in the property that was previously lacking and also motivate the Cooperative to better maintain the land. It worked. We spent a handful of afternoons preparing the land and I was amazed at how willingly the socios labored- even when the time they put into the garden was on top of their already stressful work days.

We cleared, cleaned, aerated and fertilized the land, built a fence and planted watermelon and cantaloupe seeds. We also took the opportunity to extend the project into a local school by teaching students the life cycle of a plant and then enlisting their help in planting our tomato seedlings in egg cartons. Once the seedlings are ready to transplant we are going to put them in hanging pots. A project that is still about three weeks away and the socios are already eager to get started. I have to constantly remind them that we can't plant the tomatos until the pilones are strong enough. They can't believe tomato plants can be hung and have already decided to try the technique at home too.

All in all, February was an extremely rewarding month. We witnessed a camaraderie among the cooperative members that had been lacking since the coop went into debt last year. It gave me great pleasure to see the socios come together and work diligently on something positive and productive and I hope their determination and good spirit continues through to other projects we are working on.

Last week Kamille got the word that the siege is over and it is safe for her to go back home to Coban. Yesterday, much to my chagrin, was her last day in Casas Viejas. Hopefully, she can come back in a month or so too a blooming garden full of juicy melons. Fingers crossed.

Take a look at any Guatemalan tour book and you’ll find the section that covers the Pacific Coast is the thinnest of all regions. Sure, we’ve got the beaches of Monterrico and Autosafari Chapin but most of the write-ups are sugar coated and probably written just to meet some sort of publisher’s page quota. I once noticed that the “Rough Guide” has a blurb about Taxisco’s great leather goods. I’d never recommend to ever stop there. The only leather I’ve seen in that town is that on the boots of the drunks passed out in a puddle of their own urine in the gutter outside Bar Santa Rosa. That’s not “rough”, that’s disgraceful. If I wrote my own tour book to the Southern Pacific Coast it would start, “Most towns are best experienced through the window of your bus.” Instead of dotting the map with restaurants and hotels I’d star places where tourists could find clean restrooms.

Another good indicator that not many towns in the tour book are worth checking out is that Guatemalans avoid them at all cost. “Where then”, might you ask, “do people from your town vacation to?” The answer: “Esquipulas, of course”. Esquipulas isn’t near the Pacific, it’s in Chiquimula, half way to the Atlantic, but a trip there is a true Guatemalan’s excursion. How could it not be when the town is home to El Señor de Esquipulas, the famed Black Jesus that serves as a mecca for Latin American Catholics? It doesn’t hurt that there is shopping and a Pollo Campero there too.

After nearly 18 months in country I fancy myself part Chapina and therefore, jumped at the opportunity to join the Catholic church group in a day excursion to Esquipulas. The adventure started at 1:26 am when my neighbor Mirna yelled through my bedroom window, “Annalisa, Annalisa, ya es la hora (it’s time).” I jumped out of bed, opened the door and told her i’d be ready shortly. At 1:45 am I was outside of their house waiting with a handful of people for the chartered school bus that was to take all 60 or so excursionists. We were supposed to leave at 2:00 am, the bus arrived at 2:15 am, we waited for stragglers until our 3:00 am departure (hora Chapina). I’ve decided that the habitual tardiness that afflicts this country is a hinderance to it’s overall development. It breeds complacency, a lack of motivation, responsibility etc, etc. but that is another blogpost.

I half-slept during the 4-hour bus ride to our destination. I shared a seat with my neighbors Milbia (age 26) and her kids Benicio (age 2) and Lesli (age 4). When we arrived we ate a packed breakfast on the bus. I brought an apple, my neighbors had chicken salad sandwiches. I took interest in analyzing how the different generations ate their sandwiches. Luis (age 8) spread the chicken salad between two slices of bread and ate it how most Americans would eat a typical sandwich. Mirna, his mom, put the filling on the bread and folded it in half, like a taco. Regina, his grandmother, put the chicken salad in a bowl and used the bread as an edible utensil to scoop it up. Full from breakfast, we set out to see Jesus.

El Señor can be found in the huge white Catholic church in the center of town. At 7:30 am there was already a long line of devotees snaking out of the church along the perimeter and into the plaza in front. During our winding stop-and-go pilgrimage to see El Señor I was tricked by two fake-out Jesus statues. The first was a black Jesus housed in a tent to the left of the church. Everyone was lighting candles in front of him so I thought he was the one. Turned out to just be a replica. The second occurred when we finally entered into the side of the church and came upon another Jesus. The woman I was standing next to grabbed my arm and said, “Nuestro Señor, Jesus Cristo.” She said it so passionately that I thought the encased statue of christ crawling was the one. I had already taken a picture when I realized he was painted white and couldn’t possibly be the black Jesus. Third time’s a charm. Shortly thereafter we curved around the white Jesus, walked up a small ramp and were face to profile with the real El Señor de Esquipulas. We circled around the encased statue directly behind the church pulpit. As we made the loop we overlooked the mass that was taking place in the church. We then backed down the ramp- so as to not “dar la espalda” give the back to El Señor. Our pilgrimage was complete.

Outside of the church we decided to take a tuk-tuk ride la Piedra de Los Compadres. The explanation sheet I bought for Q1 states that the site “consists of two enormous rocks that throughout time and earthquakes, one has stayed on top of the other keeping a mysterious and strange equilibrium... with three or four points of contact.” As the legend goes, 300 years ago the

rocks encased the bodies of two compadres, a man and a woman, making love while on their journey to Esquipulas. I also paid another Q1 to buy a leafy branch and candle. We walked around the rock and hit it with the branch. Everyone I was with kept crouching down in between the two rocks looking for the “breasts” but I couldn’t discern anything that looked like a woman’s chest. the woman who sold us the branch said to do it 7 times but we only did it twice. When I asked my accomplice why we didn’t finish the seven she simply said, “Two is enough.” Then I lit the candle and placed it under the top rock as all the others had done. I think I was supposed to make a wish but was too caught up in the moment and forgot.

Pollo Campero was our third destination. Then we did some shopping in the market and were back on the bus by 3:30 pm. We were supposed to leave at 4 pm but waited for stragglers until our 4:30 pm departure. As we pulled out of the parking lot I could already feel my back begin to ache and my legs begin to cramp. Then I looked over to the seat next to me at an 80-year-old woman with a cane shaking feebly and wondered, “if I am pained by the discomfort of this journey, what does she feel like right now?” On the 4-hour ride back home I reveled in my day of Guatemalan integration. I had paid tribute to El Señor, ate Pollo Campero, shopped for dulces with the ladies, got my fortune told by little birds and even contemplated asking the bus driver to make me a copy of the CD he was blasting. At 9:30 pm we arrived in Casas Viejas and as I caught myself admiring the bus ayudante’s bulging bicep muscles I realized my integration had gone too far. It was time for bed.

The friendships that I have formed in Casas Viejas have taken many shapes. I have friends, like Nancy, who laugh at my jokes, friends like Milbia, who I can ask to water my plants when I’m away, and friends like Marena, who know how I like my shucos (no mayo, extra jalapeños). These friends have given me the gift of belonging for which I will forever be indebted. Yet, making friends in Guatemala is nothing like making friends in The United States. Here my friends and I share the mutual understanding that there will always be language and cultural barriers between us. For over a year I have battled with the truth that most of my friendships in site are quite superficial. Not to say that all of my relationships in town are insignificant, quite the contrary, it’s just taken me a year to realize which friendships are genuine and begin to appreciate those that are.

I have been accustomed to being the instigator of most of my friendships as well as bearing the brunt of the work to maintain the relationships. It must be noted, however, that Guatemala is a very family centric culture and, being an outsider, people don’t really know how to involve me in their daily lives. Hanging out with the gringa doesn’t generally make their daily the to-do list (so sad, if only they knew what they were missing out on). Surprisingly though, recently I found out that is not always the case.

I was finishing cleaning my house a couple Sundays ago when my friend Tanya drove up on her bike. Every once in a while she’ll stop by to sell me fresh shrimp but it is rare that I see her more than a couple times a month. I invited her in and we sat at my table and began to chat. She asked me if she looked pale or sickly. She did look a bit fatigued so I asked her if she was ill. Then she told me that she had just spent the past four days, affirming with her fingers as she counted, “Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Yes, four days, sick in bed.” She said her head felt like it was going to explode, her bones ached and she was freezing (mind you it is a “chilly” 95 degrees here) but couldn’t stop sweating. “Oh my, it sounds like you had dengue!” I replied. She told me that she was so sickly and weak that her two daughters, Melissa and Jasmine, cried by her bed and asked her if she was going to die. She said, “I was miserable but all I could think was, ‘it's better that I am sick than one of them.’ This is the first time that I felt healthy enough to leave my house.”

It dawned on me that Tanya had just escaped the jaws of death and the first thing she decided to do was visit me. Tanya needed to get out, breathe a breath of fresh air, rejuvenate her spirits and she came to my house to do it. I was flattered. I have always felt like I need my Guatemalan friends more than they need me. This was the first instance in which the roles were reversed. We spent a good portion of the morning catching up and then she vowed to come back later in the week with Melissa and Jasmine. I sent her home with a chocolate bar for the girls.

She kept her promise and a few days later the girls came over. We looked up dresses online together (I was bridesmaid dress shopping) and Jasmine pointed to each dress we looked at and said, “A mi me gusta esto” (I like this one). We swayed in my hammocks. Jasmine played in my baby pila and Melissa flipped through my photo album. It was pleasant to have visitors over who were content just passing time with me. Nothing forced. Completely relaxed. They left after a couple of hours, Melissa toting a photo of my family. She had asked me, “me regala?” (Will you gift it to me?)

While most of my friends are busy with their daily routines I am especially thankful that Tanya and her daughters think to make me a part of theirs. What gives me even more delight is being able to share my house, my hammocks, my chocolate with them. Unlike many of my friends in town, Tanya comes from the poorest part of Casas Viejas. She lives in a one room house with dirt floors, cooks over a wooden fire and has no refrigerator. Tanya told me that Melissa remembers that when I first came to Casas Viejas I told her that I’d be here for two Christmases and that after this Christmas she cried because she thought that I was leaving. It makes me wonder what I did to be the recipient of such adoration. I don’t feel I deserve it.

This past Thursday Tanya showed up at my house again, this time she was selling shrimp that her husband had caught. I bought the shrimp and invited her in. She said she had to run an errand and then would come back with Jasmine. One hour later all of us were hanging out again. When noon came I offered to make them lunch and whipped up a dish

with the shrimp. I realized how pleasant it is to have company over. Company I can be myself around. Effortless company. During this visit Jasmine asked if she too could take home a photo. Turns out Melissa claimed the other photo for herself, asked her father for a frame and it now resides on one of the four walls of the family house.

When they left, Tanya said they’d be back, next time with milk and bananas to make liquados (milkshakes). I told them I’d supply the chocolate.

I'm being lazy this week so instead of writing a blog I am going to publish an email I sent to my friend Kamille way back in October.

::::::::::::::

So, ever since my parents brought me my guitar from The States I've been wanting to happen upon a Latin guitar virtuoso to inspire me with his magical strumming fingers and teach me lovely light-hearted Spanish tunes like "la bomba" or "cielito lindo." My hunt has been all but fruitful.

My first hopeful encounter with a potential maestro was way back in May, I think. My next door neighbor, after over hearing me toil clumsily on my guitar, beckoned me to his stoop to tocar la guitara with him. I was stoked. He is old and his family is catholic so I figured he'd know some good classic tunes. But to my chagrin, about two minutes into the session I discovered he was tone deaf and had sluggish fingers. Generous-hearted and well meaning he was, but my maestro he was not. So it was back to stumbling through chord progressions on my own.

Until tonight.

I whipped out la guitara this evening for a quick after dinner sesh. Sitting in my green plastic chair under a dangling light bulb in the backyard I began warming up with a little "Knocking on Heaven's Door" (the second of the two tunes in my huge repertoire) After the song I was shuffling through my sheet papers when I heard a, "ssshhht, shhhhht, shhhhht" coming from my neighbors house (different neighbors than before). I turned my head only to find their entire family lined up at the fence listening to my awful attempt at Bob Dylan. The father figure (I still don't know the brother/sister/mother/father/son make-up of the family) asked me what "notes" I know. I told him that I've mainly been learning chords and asked him if he played the guitar. He replied, "yes". Enter second potential virtuoso. Eager to see what tricks he had in his bag I handed my guitar over the fence and begged him to play a song. The family insisted I come over to the house and sit and listen. I obliged, as any respectable neighbor would do. I walked through their house to their backyard and they pulled up a chair for me. The father figure then started tuning my guitar, teaching as he went along how to tune by ear. "Yes, finally, someone that can play the guitar!" I'm thinking to myself. Still getting used to the sound and feel of the guitar he started playing some familiar sounding chords. I couldn't put my finger on where I had heard them before but all was good, i was getting into the music. Then he started up with his first song and it hit me like a load of bricks. Those familiar chords, paired with that familiar plucking rhythm combined with those all too familiar lyrics- this was loudspeaker worthy evangelical church music. It abruptly and painfully dawned on me that I had just invited myself to a personal evangelical sing-song session. I began to whimper internally.

I then had to sit through "Lavare, lavare" "Glorious Dios" "El Señor" songs as the family and kids clapped and sang along. Me just sitting there with a forced grin on my face. I was calculating in my head how many songs I'd have to bare before I could politely excuse myself for the evening when something strange began happening to me. The redundant plucking of the overused chords and creepy lyrics put me into this crazy trance. I felt like I was being transported into the sepia tone world of "There Will Be Blood". I realized this is why all those people go crazy at the church down the street and start screaming and babbling in tongues. This music is possessing. I had to get the heck out of there before it drug me to the dark side. As soon as the song was over I said, "that was beautiful, you'll have to teach me it sometime." Grabbed my guitar and hurried home. Safe on my side of the fence I poured myself a HUGE glass of boxed wine (strictly prohibited by Evangelicals) to wash away the culto-ness of the evening's events. As i sipped the drink of the gods, I thought to myself, "this tastes amazing, leave it to vino to save me." Then, reciting what wise Don Edgar once told me, I said to myself, "and hell, if it's the devil, then let it take me."

While in Casas Viejas, I have witnessed weddings, baby showers (called baby showers in Guatemala), birthdays and graduations. It was just a matter of time before I’d attend a funeral.

My first day back at the tienda after the new year, I walked into the store and found Adan and Miselly already at work counting the register. Nancy had quit after Veronica ostracized her for talking to her baby’s daddy. Miselly is her replacement. Employee number six in so many months. I greeted them, asking how their holiday ways and Adan said, “For us it was fine, thank God.” I thought it was peculiar that he stressed the “For us” part and the reasoning became clear when he followed the statement up with, “Alfonso is not going to be working with us for some time, he lost a son.”

In subsequent conversations I found out that Alfonso’s son, who everyone called Junior, had been living and working in The United States for 22 years when he suddenly fell ill and died in a hospital in Los Angeles. He was about 40 years old and survived by a wife and eight children. All week everyone was commenting about when “he” would arrive. Junior’s remains were being sent down to Guatemala so he could receive a proper burial in the Casas Viejas cemetery. The casket arrived Monday, the vela (candlelight vigil) was planned for that very evening and the burial was to take place on Tuesday.

Tuesday morning as I was doing some work at home Loyda came by my house and yelled for me through the chain link gate at the side of my house. “Annalisa” she shouted to me in a raspy voice (she’s been nursing a mean cold/flu for the past week). I ran to the gate to meet her. “I can’t come to cook today, the burial is at 3pm” she said while covering her mouth with a little towel. “That’s not a problem. I’m going to postpone the cooking class.” I responded. I was already prepared to do this if the funeral was in the afternoon. I then asked if she and Adan could come by my house before they headed to Don Alfonso’s so I could accompany them to the funeral. She said she’d be by at 1:30 or 2:00.

Don Alfonso lives about a kilometer outside of town in a small cement whitewashed house. His living space is modest with an outdoor kitchen and an outhouse teetering on the sloped bank of a small stream that cuts through his land. We pulled up to his house in Adan’s pick up truck loaded with townspeople we had picked up along the five minute drive. Tents had been set up surrounding the thatch roof rancho under which, in better times, hammocks hang, but now housed the flower adorned pearly white casket. There was little refuge from the pounding sun and mourners had strategically placed their plastic chairs to optimize the little shade that was available. As I took a seat under the shade of a tall bush I noticed three electric fans were cooling the coffin.

The heat had also drawn enterprising granisada (snowcone) vendors to cool the crowd with their Q3 icy treats. One of the granisaderas is a surprisingly white, nearly mute, kind-hearted woman named Marta who I have been known to hunt down on particularly scorching afternoons. We share a bond over our mutual inability to understand everything that people are saying around us. On Tuesday Marta’s ever present smiley face was enhanced by colorful make-up. I could see from ten yards away that she suffered from an over application of blush. But, I supose one must try extra hard to show respect for the deceased, especially when profiting from their untimely death. Both Loyda’s sons ran over to Marta with change in hand as soon as we sat down. On any other occasion I probably would have joined them (I have become addicted to the sweet tamarindo jam that is placed on top of granisadas) but I felt it probably wasn’t appropriate for a grown woman to slurp a snowcone during a funeral procession.

As I waited for the ceremony to begin I spotted Alfonso near the entrance to his house. It was the first time I had seen him without his signature white cowboy hat its absence aged his forlorn face. I entertained myself by I focusing on a limping pig that was sauntering around the pila and outhouse while listening to a little boy peeing behind me in the bushes. Its amazing how the sound of pee hitting a solid doesn’t make me flinch- I’ve become so accustomed to boys and men alike making impromptu urinals wherever they feel fit.

Don Alfonso’s granddaughter was filming the crowd and I couldn’t help but wonder under what circumstance would anyone want to watch that video.

About thirty minutes passed and the priest presented himself and began to talk. I noticed that he mainly addressed the Catholics in the audience who were gathered closest to his makeshift podium. The Evangelicals were scattered around the periphery. He did, however, start his eulogy by saying that he loved everyone, Catholics and Evangelicas alike because, “We are all God’s children.”

The tribute didn’t last long and when the priest asked if anyone would like to say a few words, not one person stood up. After a few songs lead by Oscar Ruben’s mom Julietta the casket was lifted and the funeral procession began. As I stated earlier, Alfonso’s home is quite a ways out of town so the march to the cemetery ended up taking about an hour to complete. There were numerous stops to allow the rotating pallbearers to exchange duties. I had secured a black umbrella from the funeral coordinators and thus, kept the beating sun off my head as we slowly progressed down the town’s main street.

When we arrived at the cemetery a crowd already surrounded the burial site. Mourners sat and stood on nearby cement graves and the pallbearers carried the casket and placed it in front of the newly cemented block that was to be Junior’s final resting place. A well-respected man of town who I know only as, Profe (professor) climbed atop the gray grave and addressed the grievers. I was standing behind the grave and stared at his back while he gave his impassioned panegyric over the coffin

At one point during the praise Profe said, “Junior had left Guatemala in search of a better life in the place that we call the land of dreams.” It was the first time I had heard anyone in my town talk about the United States while not addressing me. It gave me a bit of an out-of-body experience, like I was eavesdropping on a conversation that I shouldn’t be listening to. I got a little uncomfortable. Profe wasn’t saying anything negative about the US, but it was awkward hearing the US discussed in such a solemn setting. I was reminded that as a Peace Corps volunteer, I represent the United States and in that role I felt mildly guilty for being from the country that lured Alfonso’s son away from his homeland. I was probably the only one present who had these sentiments but regardless, they still hung heavy on my heart.

After Profe gave his final words the coffin was slid into the block and cemented over. I could hear Junior’s mother wail uncontrollably as I followed the crowd out of the cemetery with tears in my eyes.

I’m sure you have all, as I have, finished nurturing your holiday goma (hangover). That exhausted, yet satisfied feeling that follows the year’s end frenzy of festivities. My recovery took a record-long five days. I blame the lengthy recuperation on my necessity to process all that I experienced in 2010. It was a whirlwind year.

In work, progress was slow, but time was well spent. I smiled more and laughed more (even if I didn’t understand the jokes).

In experience, I learned to listen. Really listen. It took patience to silence the interjecting voice in my head that would talk over whoever I was conversing with. I’ve stopped always thinking about what I want to say next, and instead, have started focusing on what other people are saying.

In friends and family, I expanded both. Made new lifelong friends while cultivating a deeper appreciation for the people already in my life.

In life, I have been humbled. Spending some of my richest moments with some of the poorest people in the world.

All of this reflection lead nicely into some forethought.

Yesterday, I picked up the Diario (newspaper) and read my horoscope (the only thing worth reading in that paper) and it told me that this year was a year of new beginnings for Virgos. It specifically said, “pick up and move.” Since I have no intention of leaving Guatemala just yet, I decided to interpret “move” loosely as “dance.” I chose this interpretation because recently I realized just how much I love dancing.

On two occasions I was gifted the opportunity to dance with my family this holiday season. My mom + dad + Nate + Colleen - Danica (we missed you Dani) came down to visit Guatemala for 10 days between Christmas and New Years. On the day they arrived, Noche Buena (Christmas Eve), Casas Viejas had a town baile (dance). I usually shy away from the town dances after I realizing it is hard to make up good excuses as to why I can’t dance with sweaty drunk guys I didn’t know, and even harder to make up excuses as to why I can’t dance with guys toting pistols. But, on Christmas Eve, I was excited to enter the baile. I found protection in our little gringo bubble as we shuffled into the brick wall lined basketball court in the center of town. The scene was what I was used to. Clean shaven guys in Holister tees and girls in skinny jeans and bright colored tops with matching sparkly eyeshadow crowded the court. About 25 couples danced under the night sky, swerving in and out of the black stands that propped up the strobing club lights. Another 100 people were standing around the edge of the court spectating while making mental notes as to who was dancing with whom. And finally, a handful of kids were zigzagging in and out of dancers and onlookers while waiving firecrackers. Our group of six (Fernando accompanied us) stood with the spectators until my Dad asked me to dance. This triggered the entire gringo gang to collectively test our skills on the dance floor. My Dad, shamelessly got down with his signature moves which I can only describe as being 50% twist 30% congo line 18% side step 2% free-style. Nate let the music move him (without the aid of liquid courage). Colleen moved to the music probably thinking, “Oh god, is this how they are going to dance at my wedding reception?” But, my favorite was watching my mom. The smile on her face was that of perfect contentment. Pure bliss. The kind of smile that exudes, “In this moment nothing matters.” She was the happiest I have ever seen her. I watched her glide on her toes, wondered to which serene place the movement had transported her and wanted to meet her there. That is the power of dance.

Our second dance-off occurred on another Eve, New Year’s Eve. We had an amazing dinner at Meson Panza Verde. The feast of duck in chocolate sauce, lobster tail, beef filet and salmon was accompanied by the sounds of a spicy Cuban trio. The band was lead by the guitar virtuoso Denis whose magical plucking fingers invited us to the dance floor. We were the first to venture to the dance floor. We danced, laughed and made fools of ourselves, but in our uninhibited and carefree movement, we were the envy of the entire restaurant. Soon our cheer infected the other diners, and they too were moved to join us in dance.

So, yes, Diario, I will pick up and move this year. I’ll move and shake and shimmy and twirl and tap and pop and twist, just like my dad. Well, maybe not exactly like my dad.

One great thing about the Peace Corps is the opportunity it affords to meet amazing people, both host country nationals and other Peace Corps volunteers. Ask any volunteer what enabled them to endure the taxing environments and situations they find themselves in over the course of two years of service, and I’d bet most would say, “the people.” I don’t know how I could have ridden this emotional roller coaster this long without my fellow volunteers. We grow together, celebrate our gains together, commiserate together and share extraordinary moments together. We are all in this together.

Our PCV crew can empathize with each other’s struggles, and because of this, it is natural for me turn to other volunteers for advice in tough situations. As you may recall, I have been troubled greatly by Adan’s loan and recently turned to a volunteer friend, Barrett Bumpas (aka B. Bump, aka Bumpas- blue shirt in the photo above), for his sound advice. His response to my dilemma, transmitted through gchat, went a little like this:

Barrett: i would write him a letter, including ethics, what jesus would do, and spell out how interest is supposed to work

 

me: i should. wwjd?

 

Barrett: threaten him with eternal damnation

 

me: see, that’s a great idea.

Some may think this is actually a ludicrous idea. But, your wrong. It can’t be ignored that religion plays a major role in the lives of Guatemalans. Everything here is “Primero Dios” (God willing) or “Gracias a Dios” (Thanks to God). The cooperative socios are devoutly religious and often look to the bible and Jesus for guidance.

Let me give you a recent example. Last week, I was debating between whether to take a weekend trip up to Coban to visit some other volunteers or stay in my site. I wanted to see my friends, but I also felt an obligation to spend the weekend in my community. I asked around and most socios proclaimed, “Go! I’d go.” or “Life is for having fun”. But, the best response I got was from Don Edgar. I told him how I was torn and he said, “You should have told me about this a couple of days ago and I could have asked God to send me a sign. But, these things take time and now it is too late.”

“Oh no, that is too bad! Is there anything else I can do?” I replied.

“Well, God’s voice can be heard in many forms. (long pause) Tell me, have you tossed a coin?” Was his answer.

I had exhausted my efforts to convince Adan through rational thinking. It was time to turn to a higher power. I decided to sit Adan down and have a little one-on-one “come to jesus” chat. I had my speech, if you will, thought out ahead of time. I knew I couldn’t ramble off verses or talk him in biblical circles so I needed to go in with a steadfast plan. I decided to use a tactic my Dad taught me (love you papa). When I was buying my first car in Michigan I remember my Dad advised me to, “just repeat, ‘I know how much this car is worth, I’m going to pay this amount.’ Don’t let the dealer get you off topic. Repeat what you want over and over and he will concede.” I applied this “repeat” method to my current situation, reminding myself, “just repeat ‘What would Jesus do?’ Repeat it over and over and he will concede.”

It was Wednesday evening around 5pm when I invited Adan over to the wooden table in the back of the Cooperative. I was strangely nervous. I wanted this to work and I was afraid that at any moment in time I might start laughing. I am not comfortable bringing up Jesus in a work environment and, unfortunately, laughter seems to be my default response to awkward situations. I had decided that no matter what Adan’s reaction to my tactic was, I had to play the part through to the end. This was extremely important to me because I didn’t want him to think I was mocking Jesus in any way, which would never be my intention. I needed the conversation to be as sincere as I meant it. I started the chat with a smile (another tactic my Dad taught me to get rid of nerves, "It calms you and the listener," he says. He is a psychiatrist for a reason.):

“Adan, we have talked many times about your loan and I know you said that it is nonnegotiable but still this loan is causing me pain. I can’t sleep at night. I feel like I’ve come here to help the coop improve its business and this loan is stopping progress. I have spent hours thinking about what I can do to help solve this problem but couldn’t come up with anything. So, I decided to call my pastor (aka Barrett Bumpas) in the United States. I told him about the loan and how it’s making me sad and he said, “Annalisa, this is a tough situation you are in. I think the best thing for you to do is ask Adan, ‘What would Jesus do?’ So, Adan, I’m asking you know, What would Jesus do if he was in your position?”

The question hit him like a load of bricks. He widened his eyes, leaned back in his chair, gave me an awkward smile and then redirected the conversation.

Adan: You see, before you got here the cooperative had taken a Q15,000 loan out from another person who was charging Q100 interests per month. Can you believe it? Q100 per month. We couldn’t keep up that loan and we looked everywhere to find a way out. I offered to loan the money to pay off that loan and only charge Q500 interests. I was helping the cooperative.

Annalisa: Yes, but that was then and this is now. Don’t you agree that the previous loan was unjust? And now you are doing the same thing with your loan. What do you think Jesus would do?

Adan: But, when we made the deal I told them I could only give the loan if they paid me back in full because I am going to use that money for a specific reason and I need it all at once.

Annalisa: I understand, but before the coop didn’t know they would have these troubles. They didn’t know they wouldn’t be able to pay you back in a reasonable amount of time.

Adan: This is true.

(At this point I remembered I needed to get back to Jesus.)

Annalisa: Now, you have the opportunity to help the coop get out of debt. You’ve already made Q7,500. Would Jesus keep taking money?

Adan: But, this is how most people work here.

Annalisa: But, you don’t have to be “most people.” You have the opportunity to help the Coop. But, instead I feel like you are using their weaknesses for your own benefit, umm you are, how do you say....

(Here I tried to think of “you are taking advantage of the cooperative” but drew a blank.)

Adan: I’m not being conscientious?

Annalisa: Exactly. Jesus would be more conscientious.

Adan: But, no one in the coop is doing anything to help pay the loan back or look for another solution. No one has done any work.

Annalisa: Neither have you. (Smiling) If you wanted to help the coop you could go look for another lender. Why haven’t you gone and done any research? It’s as much your fault as theirs that nothing has gotten accomplished.

Adan: But, we need to do it in a group.

(This is a common belief here- everything has to be done in a group. No one can do anything independently. This infuriates me, but I keep my smile.)

Annalisa: Why do you need to do it in a group? If you want to get something done you have the power to do it. When I want to do something, I do it. I didn’t need a group of people to come with me to talk to you about your loan. I wanted to do it and now we are here talking about your loan. (Internal thought, ‘less me, more Jesus, Anna.’) Jesus did things on his own. You have the power to make this right...

At that moment Alfonso showed up on his moto and broke up our conversation. I could tell Adan was relieved.

I have yet to see any signs that bringing Jesus into the loan discussion has helped the situation. But, like Don Edgar says, “these things take time.”

My life in Guatemala has become much more light hearted and humorous these past few months thanks to my new found friend, Nancy. I’m pretty sure I’ve introduced you all to her, she is the latest of the thread of replacement shop keepers. Lucky for the Cooperative, she is on her second month and staying strong. She did threaten to quit after her one month mark but I arranged an intervention and Adan, Alfonso and I managed to convince her to stay. Gracias a Dios.

I knew Nancy and I were going to get along the moment she told me, “I don’t know if I want to get married. I have enough to worry about as it is, the last thing I need are in-laws.” She goes against the Guatemalan grain. She is a breath of fresh air. Since she started working at the store, the monotony of the tienda’s retail atmosphere has vanished.

I’ll give you an example.

At the store we sell some typical produce: onions, tomatoes, potatoes, bell peppers, carrots etc. The stock doesn’t always fly off the shelves so we are constantly looking for ways to keep the produce fresh for as long as possible. Our most recent salvaging act was performed on a handful of wilting, rubbery carrots. I showed Nancy how to maintain the veggies fresh by sticking them in water and refrigerating (a trick I stole from my mom- love you mom- also works great with celery). Nancy filled a little plastic bowl with water, placed the carrots in the bowl stems up. Then she turned to me before placing the bowl in the fridge. The following exchange ensued:

Nancy: “Do we cut the greens off?”

Annalisa: “I don’t know, what do you think?”

Nancy: “What do you think?”

Annalisa: “I want to know what you think will look better.”

Nancy: (While gripping her ponytail) “Well, if you cut off all MY hair, I think it would look a little strange.”

We kept the greens on.

Every first Friday of the month at 4pm in the afternoon the Cooperative has an all-member meeting. Yesterday was no exception. At 5pm (we run on “la hora Chapina” (Guatemalan time)) the members gathered in a semi circle of white plastic chairs on the dirt plot behind the tienda. Thirteen of the twenty-eight members were present. Jamie Juarez, the Coop president, gave the introduction, some other pieces of business were discussed and then Adan and Alfonso stood up to give the monthly tienda report.

I have been working with Adan on compiling this monthly report since I arrived here in Casas Viejas. Prior to my arrival those in charge of the tienda would simply report one figure during the meeting, a figure that they called “Inventory.” This number was a sum of the value of all products in the tienda, plus outstanding credit, plus the amount that was in the cash register. This was an approximate calculation of what was invested in the store at that point in time. The first problem I noticed with this figure was that they were calculating the value of their products using the selling price instead of the price at which they bought the goods. For example, if they had 10 eggs in their inventory and they paid Q.70 for each egg and charged Q1 they would calculate the product value to be Q10 instead of Q7. This was an error that took me months to explain to them. After almost a year of diligently working on improving the old style of reporting Adan and I now compile a complete report including inventory, income, expenses and earnings for the month. But I digress, we were discussing the current report... Adan was up in front of his twelve colleagues about to read off the report we had compiled over the preceding three days. But before he rambled off the figures he started with a little intro that went like this:

Adan: “Before I start I want to confess to you all that this report is not easy to do. In fact it’s a huge head-ache. Annalisa and I have worked three days on completing this work and its tough, all of the numbers give me an immense head-ache.”

Annalisa’s internal thoughts: “hahaha, damn straight I’m making your brain work.”

Adan: “But the truth is I’m learning a lot, Annalisa is teaching me useful information. I was talking with Loyda (his wife) this morning and I told her that what I am learning will help me in future work. I encourage all of you to come to the tienda and take part in what we are doing there.

Annalisa’s internal thoughts: “Awe, Adan, that is just about the best feedback I could have ever asked for.”

Adan: “Right now, I see that there is a lack of participation on the part of most associates. Alfonso and I work every night at the store, sometimes working past dinnertime, our wives are wondering where we are, and I see associates drive by on their bicycles and just waive. Just remember that in March I am no longer going to be a part of the Vigilance Committee and another person will be in charge of the tienda. Whether you like it or not, eventually more of you will need to take responsibility of the tienda.”

Annalisa’s internal thoughts: “March is going to be a rough month.”

Adan then gave the monthly report. Good news, the store had earnings of Q561 for the month and even after paying off some of the Cooperatives debts. The Cooperative as a whole is still in debt but we are making gains in cutting the deficit. Speaking of debts there is one that pains me to think of. Maybe pains isn’t the right word, irks me to no end is more like it. You know that helpless, empty feeling that permeates the area where your figurative soul resides when you realize you’ve lost something of importance? That feeling that sends tingles up your spine and makes you want to heave a moan of angst? I get that every time I think about Adan’s loan.

Adan and Loyda are two of my favorite Cooperative associates. They are responsible, friendly and eager to learn. But ever since I uncovered the specifics of this loan of theirs I have an internal (strictly internal) love/hate relationship with them. When the tienda was just opening Adan loaned the Cooperative Q10,000 to stock the store. The loan is working like this; Adan loaned Q10,000 and will receive Q500 monthly in interests until the loan can be paid back in full. None of the Q500 monthly interests goes towards paying off the principal. You know that helpless pain in my soul I just described? I’m getting that feeling right now just writing about this loan. Adan gave the loan September of 2009. He has since received Q7,500 in just interests. My soul is hurting again. You do the math.

Nearly all of the Cooperative earnings are going to pay other outside debts. It will be ages before they can save Q10,000 to pay back Adan in one lump sum. And in the meantime he will be raking in Q500 monthly. And I’m pretty sure he knows this. In fact, I know he knows this because when I took him aside last month to try to convince him to let the Coop refinance the loan, and told him, “Adan, its going to be impossible for the Cooperative to get out of this loan!” He said with a smirk, “I know.”

I warned Adan that I was going to discuss his loan at the meeting. I even gave him the opportunity to play the “good guy” and offer up the proposed refinance as his own idea. But he wanted me to do the talking and said, “Let’s see what the other members think.”

Yesterday, when he was done with giving the monthly report, he was the one that said, “And now Annalisa wants to discuss my loan.”

Annalisa: “I have spoken with Adan about the possibility of refinancing his loan. Since it seems like it will be a while before the Cooperative can save Q10,000 I think it might be a good idea to negotiate a change in how the principal is paid back. Maybe try to refinance so that part of the Q500 that we pay him monthly will go to pay off the principal and a portion will be interests.”

All the associates agreed that this would be a good idea.

Maritza: “Adan, would you agree to this change?”

Adan: “No.”

Maritza: “So your loan is non negotiable”

Adan: “It's non negotiable.”

Annalisa’s internal thoughts: “what a jerk. I’m definitely not going to give him a Christmas goody bag.”

I’m not kidding. I was furious with his intractability and in retaliation my brain immediately sought the only punishment I could bestow upon him. Neglecting him a christmas present.

“I guess I am most surprised by the lack of respect for personal space.”

This was Julia’s response to my question, “What about Guatemala is different than you expected?”

It’s true that the buses are so crowded that passengers are expected to sit three to a two-person bench seat. Every time the bus pauses, at a corner, at a stop, at a road block or in traffic, vendors and preachers climb aboard pushing and squeezing their way through the already crowded aisle. Plump women carry dehydrated plantains, fruit or friend chicken on their heads while conducting a sing-song sales pitch in a tight nasal voice, “plataninas, jovenes, plataninas.” Boys hop on carrying nuts, candy and beverages and clean shaven men tote bibles and preach the good word, instantly converting the bus into a mobile house of worship. Julia got a taste of all of this while visiting me and quickly realized after being smacked by a basket carrying chili rellenos and a life size piñata why the window seat is the most coveted on the bus. Luckily, she kindly considered the bus ride a cultural experience.

Julia also got the full exposure of boom box and loud speaker presence in my town. There is not a moment of silence here. Beginning at 6:30 am

the guy across the street gets on his loud speaker and preaches to the town while sitting on his front porch with a microphone in hand. At about 8:00 my neighbors to both sides alternate playing their radios at maximum decibel levels. Lastly, the day is topped off by the broadcast of the evangelical sermon and accompanying congregational clapping and singing down the dirt path. I guess the constant blaring noise isn’t what you’d typically consider a physical encroachment on one’s personal space but it is still behavior that effects one’s ability to live without outside influences. In order to better block out the noise, Julia requested that we leave the fan on at night (even if wasn’t pointed at the bed) so the humming noise would drain out the early morning gospel and allow us to sleep at least until 7:30.

She got one more dose of lack of privacy while in my town. One day Julia and I were in my backyard eating lunch and she asked me where my neighbor’s bathroom and shower was. She was peering through the chain link fence that separates my yard from my neighbors and I turned to see what she was looking at. One of my neighbors was showering in her pila- fully clothed in a tanktop and shorts. “They have a shower and toilet under the steps but I think they just prefer to shower in the pila,” was my response. It makes perfect sense really. After washing all the clothes Saydee, my neighbor, is hot and sweaty and ready for a wash herself, so she just starts dumping water over her head, scrubs and showers right then and there in the middle of the backyard.

Thanks for visiting me Jules and letting me rediscover Guatemala through fresh eyes.

For the past two weeks every time I stop by our old tienda location where Eslin works under new ownership some rounded middle-aged woman with a long dark ponytail is behind the counter instead of Eslin. Today I decided to find out why Eslin wasn’t working and sauntered over to Brenda’s salon “Beautiful Star” to get the scoop. Brenda informed me that a week or so ago Eslin had symptoms of a miscarriage and hasn’t been working since. That’s all she said and told me I should go stop by her house to see how she is doing.

After I gave my English lesson I made my way down the main street the hundred yards or so to Eslin’s house across from the cemetery. I found her at her fence chatting with her cousin wearing a bright yellow floral top, jean miniskirt and a pair of white Steve Madden sandals that I gave her (I love it when she wears them). All appearances looked normal and I was a bit relieved. She then invited me to her stoop to chat for a bit.

There was no jovial chitchat to commence the conversation because as soon as I told her I had passed by the store a few times looking for her but only saw some random lady, the floodgates opened.

“Oh Annalisa, you won’t believe what I have been through! That lady is the owner of the store and when she came back to Casas Viejas she told me I had to give my renunciation because she was going to take over. We went through all of the accounts, I closed out all of the credits, we did an inventory and everything was as it should be. But, when I left she started telling everyone that came to the store that I had stolen Q6,000. What would I do with Q6,000, that is a lot of money! And the store was still fully stocked. If I had taken the money I would have left the store empty. The rumors that she spread upset me so much that I almost lost my baby. I was tormented and sick and started to hemorrhage. Everyone thought I would have to go to the hospital, that the baby was going to come early, but thank goodness I got better. And now she is telling everyone that I was a pig and left the tienda dirty with trash everywhere. The worst part is she is family! She is Marvin’s aunt! (Marvin is Eslin’s husband). I refuse to go to the center of town. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all of my life.”

I was shocked at what she told me, Brenda didn’t mention anything about the animosity between the new owner and Eslin. I consoled her as best as I could, telling her that gossip is horrible and that I’ll do whatever I could to dispel the rumors. I assured her that anyone that has ever been to the store knows that she kept it extremely clean and this woman is going to lose customers by spreading untruths.

As she was thanking me for my support a man pushing a bike hobbled to the gate at the front of Eslin’s house and asked permission to enter. Eslin giggled and turned to me and began to explain, “Here there is a superstition that a woman who is pregnant with her first baby can cure ailments, that is why he is here.” The man limped to the front porch carrying some sort of cream and Eslin gave him a chair, took the cream and asked him what had happened. He replied, “I twisted my foot and dislocated my toe, it hurts tremendously.” Eslin then opened the cream, put some on her fingers and began stroking and soothing his right foot and baby toe with the cream. “Does it hurt?” she asked. “Yes, it still hurts” he replied with a cringe. As she kept at the foot he loosed up a bit and after about 2 minutes of “healing” she put the cap back on the cream and said, “all done.” He asked how much it would cost and she said, “nothing.” I watched as he hobbled back to the gate and climbed on his bicycle all the while thinking to myself, “well, since she lost her job at the store, she really ought to think about charging for this service, at least for the next six months.”

Today I celebrated my Birthday. Two months late.

When I arrived at the Coop tienda for our daily closing ritual Seno Maritza whipped out a cake box. Naturally, I thought someone in town had put in an order through the new bakery whose bread we are busing in from Chiquimulilla to sell at the store. Then she opened the box and beckoned me over. That is when I saw written in pink and blue frosting: Felicidades Analiza (that's me). I was so confused. Adan explained that they have been wanting to get me a cake since September 16th when we had our road trip to Jalapa. Two months later the cake made it to Casas Viejas and they all sang me happy birthday. I love Guatemala.

p.s. a lot of people here spell my name Analiza which also happens to be the third person singular form of the verb analizar. This translates to: she analyzes. I think the name is fitting.

A few weeks back I started up summer school English classes for the kids in town. This year I limited my class to 5th and 6th graders hoping that a smaller class would enable me to have a bigger impact. So far I think its working. Instead of my class of 30 from last year, I have about 10-15 (depending on the day). There are six boys (Jorge, David, Luis Angel, Miguel Eduardo, Hugo and Henry) and two girls (Cinthia and Andrea) that come religiously. Unlike last year, when it was like pulling teeth to get the kids to talk in class, this group proudly participates.

Today, I decided to skip the lesson plan and have a Halloween themed instruction in honor of one of my favorite holidays. I knew it would be a good day when as soon as I was turning the key to unlock the classroom door I hear the pounding of pavement and screeching of bike brakes behind me. The boys had arrived. I opened the door and they pushed past me all saying, "Good morning teacher." They rushed to their seats up front and patiently waited for me to begin writing the lesson plan on the whiteboard. Its 9:40 am. My class starts at 10 am. Nothing reassures me more that my work is worth while than the punctuality of these eager students.

I started the lesson with a review of changing words from the singular to plural form and reviewed the seasons, months and days of the week vocabulary. Most kids already know English basics; colors, days, greetings, animals, fruit etc. I was able to rush through the "boring" vocab to get to the "Halloween" vocab. Ghost, coffin, witch, pumpkin, trick or treat, candy... they loved it all. Then we reviewed some phrases: Sunday, October 31, is Halloween. Children wear costumes. Katie will dress as a witch. What will you dress as? The last question I made them all come up with a costume and announce, "I will dress as a ______. Each was rewarded with a handful of candy corn (Thank you Katie Goodhew for sending me Halloween treats!) I went student by student. There was a vampire, princess, ghost, monster... Then when I got to the last student, David, he said, "I will dress as Michael Jackson." Which serendipitously led into the final activity: the playing "Thriller," the kids favorite MJ hit. They all jumped up and cleared a little dance floor and got their Michael on. I captured a bit of it on tape for you guys to see.

p.s. Uncle Art, Tata Annie, Sylvie, Ariel, Sophie, Stan and little nena Dahlia, thank you for your lovely package! Today we used the brown construction paper that the box was wrapped in (nothing goes unused here) to make nameplates for the kids. They thank you too. As for the contents of the package, my stomach and I have decided upon other plans for those treats.

The words “road trip” evoke the sentiments of adventure, uncertainty and camaraderie. Something about being confined to a small space with a gang of cohorts for an extended period of time always induces unexpected and memorable events, if not a good story line, like the one I'm about to unfold.

I recently had the pleasure of going on a “road trip” with four male members of my cooperative. I was one female in a car full of men- the first sign that things were going to get interesting. We had a 9am meeting in Jalapa with SAT- the IRS of Guatemala- to review proper financial reporting specific to Cooperatives. The drive to Jalapa is about 4 hours each way.

At 4:30 am Julio and the gang picked me up from my house in a Don Edgar’s beat up 1990’s maroon Mazda. Being gentlemanly, the guys gave me the front seat. I actually prefer not to take that coveted seat up front because seat belts are as common in Guatemala as side-view mirrors (read: not common) and I’d probably be the first to fly through the windshield if we got into an accident- luckily i’m still here to tell this tale. Speaking of seat belts, I caused some early morning chuckles when I took my throne up front and instinctively reached my arm back to grab the “seat belt” which of course wasn’t there. Moises, seeing this automatic reflex, gave a little giggle from the back seat and said, “You’re not going to find one of those here, hahaha.” “reeeeal funny.” I thought to myself.

And so the trip began all of us in high spirits. Julio was our chauffeur, I was manning the radio as co-pilot and Adan was sandwiched by Moises and Jamie in the back seat. Our first interesting incident occurred at about 5:30 am. We were making our way up the mountainous terrain just outside of a town called Moyuta when the car started to jerk. Immediately Julio says, “I knew I should have put gas into the car yesterday.” I look at the gas gauge and we are literally running on empty. I start to get a little worried, we had quite a bit of upward climbing left to do and there was no sign of civilization. Nevertheless, I kept my anxieties to myself. We continued our ascent, chugging along in an epileptic seizure-like motion for a good 10 minutes. It didn’t help that coming from the back seat with every jerk Adan would peep a, “whoop” and Jamie would follow with a, “Nope, not going to make it.” Miraculously, we did make it to the top of the hill just outside of Moyuta and below us I could see a gas station. “Saved!” I thought to myself. Julio pumped the gas pedal one more time and we sped down the hill towards the town. But, as we neared the gas station I noticed he wasn’t slowing down to turn into its lot, we got closer and closer and I just looked longingly at the lonely gas pumps as we whizzed by. “What are you doing!” I exclaimed “We need to stop for gas!” “Yeah but the gas station up the road is cheaper.” was Julio’s reply. After two minutes more of jerky driving we were filling up the tank.

My favorite part about Julio is that he hasn’t quite figured out yet that I understand Spanish. Instead of talking to me like a normal human being, he speaks in choppy phrases using animated hand jesters to ensure that I understand what he is saying. So instead of saying something like, “We are going to drive to Jalapa,” He’ll say, “Drive car Jalapa” while grabbing an imaginary steering wheel. So when we were nearing Jutiapa he turns to me and says, “Hungry? Coffee?” which of course means, “Are you hungry? Would you like to stop for coffee?” The consensus was yes and we pulled off at a roadside stand.

We piled out of the car and as we began walking to the muchacha with a red cap who was setting up her venta for the morning, I noticed Moises had a huge wet spot covering his entire rear-end. I brought this to his attention and he said, “The backseat is wet.” That was that and he spent the rest of the day with a soggy toosh.

We ordered our coffee and pan tostada from the woman in the red cap and I sat enjoying my breakfast as the four men, all married mind you, began flirting with the woman and her three daughters. They were playing the game “Us three are married but Jamie is single.” The small talk was nauseating, “So how many beautiful daughters do you have?”, “Is your husband going to come here and beat me up for talking with you?” Don Jamie left the stand with a napkin containing the red cap lady’s phone number.

When we arrived at the SAT office we filed into the meeting room and took our seats. The presentation was of the powerpoint variety and was quite informative although I could tell the information was in one ear and out the other for most of the audience. There is a reason my Coop hired an accountant to take care of all of their financials. At the end of the presentation we all handed in an evaluation form in exchange for a “Diploma.” There are few things more coveted by Guatemalans than a diploma. It’s hard evidence of achievement. So we all left with a piece of paper affirming that we had participated in the “tax-paying obligations of cooperatives” course.

Back in the car Jamie took the wheel for the drive home. We were all a bit worn out from the morning ride and subsequent three hour lecture. Nevertheless, every time we passed a young girl walking on the road in tight jeans Jamie would give a little honk of approval. The guys obviously unconcerned with the company of a female in their presence maintained a steady conversation about women the entire ride home. Some aspects of human nature are universal. At one point, after passing a particularly attractive young female Jamie gave his little tap of the horn and murmured, “Como dice Don Edgar, “Si es el diablo, que me lleva”” (Like Don Edgar says, If its the devil, let him take me).

Early last month Veronica brought baby Mia into the world. The name is a variant of Maria and also means "mine" in Spanish. It was one of the names I suggested during our little naming game in August that you may remember me writing about. When the bun was still in the oven I would always part with Veronica by saying, Hasta mañana, Vero" (until tomorrow, Vero (short for Veronica)), then waive to her stomach and say, "hasta mañana, Mia". When I first went to go visit the baby I asked what name Veronica had given her and she said, "We gave her the name Mia, a little remembrance of Annalisa." I was flattered.

A few weeks after Veronica gave birth to Mia, Eslin confided in me that she too was now pregnant. As has become customary prenatal chit-chat, yesterday Eslin, Brenda and I were talking names on the stoop of Eslin's tienda. I suggested Isabela. Eslin replied by saying, "Isabela, Isabela, I like it. I'm not going to tell anyone though, this name is mine."

The last week of September we saw six straight days of nonstop rain and, of course, Casas Viejas flooded once again. I was beginning to think we should rename the town to Casas Mojadas (wet houses) but then remarkably on Tuesday the rain stopped. Everyone in my town is convinced that "ya se fue la lluvia" (the rain has left) and summer is now upon us.

With summer comes sunshine and with sunshine comes the salt harvest season. On Friday the Cooperative had a meeting to discuss what will become of our salina this year. Since we are still paying off debts from last year's harvest, going into the meeting I was prepared to convince the socios that we need not go into another year hastily. I discussed with them the importance of planning and mentioned that if we aren't going to work the salinas we need to start investigating what we can do with the land and equipment- assets that we could rent to make back some of our investment. After my little spiel, Toribio, the secretary, did a vote to see who wanted to invest in the salinas another year. Four socios voted affirmatively.

Then to my delight Julio proposed an ingenious idea. He suggested that the Cooperative rent out the salina to the four socios who wanted to work the land. These socios would pay the Cooperative a set amount for the land, boards and nylon, a fee that the cooperative could then use to pay off the salinas debts. The socios who work the salina would be responsible for additional investments (gasoline, purchasing a new motor, etc), and supplying the labor. They would also reap any profits from sales. A huge benefit to this proposal is that the Coop would be guaranteed income. It also hands over the responsibility of the salinas to those few who actually want to work the land.

One of the biggest problems with the salinas last year was that no one wanted to work them. We lagged in prepping the land and lost weeks of harvesting time because the socios didn’t show up to help lay and mend the nylons. When the land was finally ready, we hired outside labor to harvest the salt. The point of a cooperative is to provide work for its associates. I never understood why we were paying a nonmember for labor- money that left the cooperative and benefited no socio. With this new system the four socios will be motivated to work because they will be putting their own money into the salina and will be forced to do a better job of managing the business. It puts the onus on them to make a profit. Brilliant. The four socios have until the 21st of October to decide if they are going to rent the land. If they do, I will be able to work with them on business planning, organizing, managing and finding buyers.

I knew it was that time of year again when I started hearing my neighbor kids practicing Beethoven's “Ode to Joy” and the theme song from “Titanic” on their school issued plastic recorders. To me the recorder playing signals the eminent arrival of Independence Day, or as I refer to it, Independence Week. A few weeks ago when I heard kids hitting off key notes around town it immediately made me think back to my host sister Lidia in Alotenango. She too practiced the recorder around this same time and then it dawned on me that I have been here long enough to start noticing yearly seasonal and cultural patterns. It kinda makes Guatemala feel a little bit more like home.

This Independence Week played out much like it did last year. Parades, running of the torcha, fireworks etc. The first activity I participated in was the crowing of this year’s “Señorita Independencia.” You’ll remember from my last post that we had a few beauty pageants in town recently- none of which was used to decide on the Independence Day Queen. Nope, there is no judging when it comes to choosing the Queen it’s done democratically through public voting. But remember, we are in Guatemala so instead of casting a ballot, you cast your vote (or votes) in currency. The girl with the most “votes” or “queztales” is crowned queen. In other words, its really just a test to see who’s parents love their little girl enough (and have the means) to fork over a few hundred Q’s to win her that sash and crown. Democracy Guatemalan style.

One other new activity for me this year was the singing of the national anthem. I guess last year I missed this but no fear, I got my fill this year. I went to a total of three Independence Day activities at the local schools, each of which started with the National Anthem. First, at the crowning of the “Señorita Independencia”, kids lined up in front of the stage and sang along with a recorded version of kids singing the anthem. To me it was a bit awkward - I felt like I was watching a lip-sync contest without the enthusiasm. Second, at the “Premaria” or elementary school activity the director of the school must have been embarrassed about the previous Milli Vanilli style performance and made a BIG deal about having everyone sing the anthem a cappella. He even insisted that the vendors stop selling food while the anthem proceedings were underway. To Americans this may seem like standard procedure, but then again our national anthem isn’t ten minutes long. Yes folks, I think the Guatemalan anthem might be the longest in the world- its like a marathon- I agree vendors should stop selling but only because they should be passing out gatorade to quell exhaustion from undertaking the venture. Jokes aside, I was pleasantly surprised by the publics performance sans recording. Almost everyone knew all of the words, or did a good job of faking it.

I’m going to leave you with some wonderful sights and sounds of the Independence Day hoopla. Viva Guatemala!

I'm beginning to believe there is a correlation between beauty pageants and torrential downpour. Someone needs to inform Guatemala that the gods feel they are the only ones capable of judging human beauty.

August 18th Senorita Revista beauty pageant

August 18th-20th Torrential downpour

August 25th Mister Instituto beauty pageant postponed during Talent segment due to thunderstorms

August 26th: Flooding in Casas Viejas

September 2nd: Mister Instituto rescheduled again due to heavy rain

September 3rd: Flooding in Casas Viejas

September 8th: Mister Instituto beauty pageant successfully completed

Now I'm just waiting for the gods' response.

But, in all seriousness, I've seen better days down here. This rainy season has been the worst in recent history. You may have seen in the news that the excess rainfall has caused catastrophic landslides placing Guatemala in a state of emergency. Casas Viejas has had more than its share of the travesties. My town is situated on a floodplain and surrounded by a river/canal system that runs from the mountains to the ocean. Rain has been pounding us consistently and on top of that the rivers surrounding us can't contain all of the rain that is rushing down from nearby mountains and is spilling out and flooding the town. For the past week or so there has been flooding all around me. The roads have turned into rivers. Cattle are roaming freely because their pastures have been converted into lakes. Our electricity is continually disrupted. Hundreds of people have been displaced. Yet, everyone is handling the dire situation with palpable resilience. Life, after all, must go on and beauty pageant queens (and misters) still must be crowned.

Hector the shop boy quit. He worked exactly 18 days at the Coop tienda. His reason for leaving: he wanted to move to Esquintla to live with his sister and get a job there. I was sad to see him go, even bought him a desert empanada as a going away present, and wished him the best of luck in his future endeavors.

Iris, Hector’s replacement, trained with him on his last day. This gave me much pleasure because I was able to watch as Hector explained to her how to maintain all of our books. He had learned the system I taught him well enough to teach another individual- the key to sustainability. Iris proved to be an even better bookkeeper than Hector and on her first day was only short Q0.40 from the register.

But alas, change must be contagious because Iris quit too. She worked exactly 8 days. Her reason for leaving: her brothers (who all live in Irvington, NJ) want her to stay at home and help her mother. Tomorrow is Iris’ last day. It will be sad to see her go, I plan on buying her a desert empanada as a going away present (or maybe a chocobanano if the empanada lady doesn’t pass by the store tomorrow), and will inevitably wish her all the luck in her future endeavors.

We still don’t have a replacement for Iris. Should be an interesting next few days.

In other news, I have new neighbors. See, change is contagious. They moved today into what was previously an empty house to the left of mine. Tragically, the family was displaced due to all the flooding that has been happening on the North side of town. Those effected by the flooding have been living in knee high water for the past three days. Families are sleeping outside on the elevated road in front of their homes, afraid to leave for fear of being robbed. I have consistently told Don Edgar (whose house has been flooded 13 times this year) that I think we should gather the people who have been effected and discuss what we can do to improve the situation- maybe ask the government to send an engineer out to see what is causing the flooding and how it could be avoided, or research costs for elevating their homes. So far I’ve had no luck in convincing him to do this, most likely because every other day he is occupied with bailing his house out. I may have better luck when the rains subside in October- will keep you posted.

So back to my new neighbors... I’m not so sure how this change is going to effect my way of living in the long run but I do know my new neighbors and I are going to get real close real fast. To explain, the chain-link fence that separates our houses is great for keeping their chickens on their side of the fence but doesn’t do much good in the privacy department. In fact, I happened to catch a young man showering in his turquoise tighty whities through the fence tonight as I was walking to my kitchen to cook my dinner. Two seconds later I overheard him ask, “who is that?.” The response was, “The Gringa.” Luckily, my shower is tucked around the other side of my house so I won’t have the same bathing privacy issues.

However, I have a feeling I’m no longer going to be able to keep my weekly routine of “Julianne Hough Cardio Ballroom” and “Jullian Michaels: 30 Day Shred” exercise videos a secret anymore. And, now when I eat my dinner alone at my little plastic table in my backyard, I won’t really be alone. Which is funny because before it didn’t bother me to eat alone but now that other people will be watching me eat alone, I’m gonna feel awkward and, well, alone. Its kinda like going to Buca Di Beppo and asking for a table for one. You know the waiter is thinking, “does this girl know we do family-style here?” and all the other patrons are giving you pity looks. Its just so awkward. Yes, I quite like this analogy. All that is missing is the garlic bread and checkered table cloth. Ciao- Let's Mangia.

The first two weeks at the new Coop tienda location have been a success. Sales are steady and Hector, the shop keeper, has done a stellar job at maintaining the set of books I have requested he keep. The books detail the sales, purchases and credit flowing through the business. We have also initiated a new meeting at 5PM every day in which the Vigilancia (vigilance committee), Tesorero (treasurer) and Hector reconcile the books to see how the day ended. The store doesn’t actually close until about 8PM but our “day” ends at 5PM and sales after that point go onto the following day’s books.

This week the minibank also was moved from its temporary location at Jenny’s computation center to the new tienda local. With the move came Veronica (bank teller) and Manuel (doing an internship of sorts at the minibank). Having Veronica at the tienda adds a little spunk to the atmosphere. The girl likes to gossip and has shared all sorts of gushy town dirt with me, such as, which men frequent prostitutes, who hits the bottle a little too hard... I would elaborate but I recently found out that someone who reads my blog (you know who you are) has been reporting information back to people in town and I don’t want to cause any unnecessary trouble. I’m sure you understand.

Veronica’s affinity for gossip is not the only entertaining thing about her. She is six months pregnant and her little bun in the oven is also the source of good chit-chat. She finds out the sex of her little "túmulo" this week. I don’t know the word for bump in Spanish. I do, however, know "túmulo" which translates to speed bump so this is what I refer to her baby bump as- close enough. We spent one afternoon last week going through potential baby names. I did the naming and she would respond if she liked it or not. It went a little like this:

Anna: Micah

Veronica: No, hate it 

Anna: Max

Veronica: OK but Maximilian

Anna: Jackson

Veronica: Jason?

Anna: No, Jackson

Veronica: Jason?

Anna: Zachary

Veronica: Esaqu..... (definitely couldn't pronounce that)

Anna: Brent

Veronica: huh? 

Anna: Trent

Veronica: huh? 

Anna: Charly

Veronica: I like that one. Give me some more...

And so the afternoon went. She came out liking a few of my suggestions but when I offered Annalisa for a girl's name she just laughed at me.

I had intended to end my blog post with the baby name story but there was a passing in my town Friday night which has given me the opportunity to bring together, as often occurs, the two themes of birth and death. I will warn you that this post is now turning a little dark...

Friday night as the town was experiencing a unusually heavy rainfall a man was killed outside of the town cemetery. The murder took place while I was tucked away in my bed, coincidentally, watching the horror movie American Psycho (thanks Danielle). I didn’t hear the handful of gunshots that rang out because they were masked by the pounding raindrops on my rooftop and the sound of Christian Bale's chainsaw. It wasn’t until Saturday morning, when I stopped by the tienda, that I learned of the tragedy. I will recount the details that I have gathered from various sources.

The deceased was a young man of questionable character; a known gang member who also meddled in the dealing and consumption of drugs. His fatal flaw, however, was his inclination to steel from the people in town and then escape of to the capital to sell the ill-gotten gains. Let me remind you that my town is pretty small- just over 2,000 inhabitants. The large majority of people are honest, hardworking and respectful so when there is a rotten apple in the bunch it's easy to pick that person out. And picked out this delinquent was. He was walking by himself after nightfall and someone (or some people) took the law into their own hands and shot him to death. He was found shortly after the deed was done with no less than 8 bullets in his body. One right through his forehead.

Civil policing is not uncommon in Guatemala. In a country where few have faith in the government, police are seen as another futile and corrupt arm of the powers that be. And as awful as this incident was, the townspeople are shaken but show no outrage. “Now we will have fewer problems” is their ultimate conclusion, "the gangs will think twice before coming to Casas Viejas."

I made it safely back to my site last weekend. The trip, however,was not my typical four hour/three bus jaunt. Repairs on the bridge between Chiquimulilla and my site still haven’t commenced which added a little detour to my usual route. At the bridge all passengers were unloaded and directed to take a rocky side path down to the river. We then crossed three provisional bridges that just barely cleared the rushing waters below and continued to trek back up a steep hill to the awaiting buses on the other side. While crossing the river I could see the once sturdy bridge now dangling by its support cables 100 feet above my head. The site was a stunning visual of mother nature’s destructive power.

Once back in site I started making the rounds. I visited Seno Lili, Jenny, Loyda and ran into a handful of other socios while walking around town. It felt great to greet everyone in the streets, only i found that instead of a simple “good afternoon,” everyone saluted me with a, "You've finally appeared! We thought you were never coming back." While out and about I ran into the Coop treasurer Don Alfonso who informed me that our Cooperative was in the process of moving tienda locations to a much more “rustic” building with a lower rent. I made a trip to Eslin’s house, our shopgirl, and good friend of mine. She confessed to me that she had quit and will be working at the new libreria that will occupy the cooperative’s old space. I have no hard feelings- I think the Coop came to rely on her too much anyway- and am just glad that she didn’t decide to take a job in Guatemala City.

Last Monday I spent the day with the socios cleaning and fixing-up the new local. About ten minutes into the clean-up I managed to cut my foot on a rusty nail (just my luck) and after giving it a good cleaning called Johanna at the Peace Corps medical office- her response, “I would like to bubble wrap you.” We both decided that I suffer from a “lack of spacial awareness” and I agreed to continue to keep the wound clean and let her know if “it gets pussy or begins to smell” (gross- and luckily neither occurred- the wound is nearly completely healed as I write this post). We finished cleaning the store that evening - the only thing it lacked was product. While cleaning I was informed that the new shop keeper will be a 20 year old guy from a nearby Aldea. Working with a male will change my daily work dynamic immensely. I don’t think I’ll be able to just sit and chat at the store like I did with Eslin. But, I am looking forward to starting from scratch with the store bookkeeping - a clean slate will make it easier for me to get him in the habit of keeping good records. I only hope that he isn’t filled with too much machismo and doesn’t mind taking orders from a female. Time will tell how this change effects the progress I make here.

Wednesday I traveled with Don Jamie and Don Edgar (the current and former Coop presidents) to Cuilapa (a two hour trip in pick-up) to the INACOP offices for a little meeting for all Santa Rosa Coops. INACOP had called the meeting because an opportunity to request government funding for projects had emerged and they wanted to let all Coops try their luck at scoring some of the purse. Nearly 15 representatives from various Cooperatives throughout the department showed up. We were given a small presentation which was followed by a roundtable discussion. The more outspoken attendees took advantage of this time to preach about their misfortunes and coinciding acts of perseverance in the midst of previous monetary obstacles. One woman gave an account of her groups situation, starting her narrative with, “I only would like a few moments of your time” which in Guatemala indicates that she will have the floor for the better part of the next 15-30 minutes. She spoke of the humble beginnings of her cooperative that initiated with the desire to have an income generating outlet for women in her community. They underwent many obstacles to get the group off the ground and reach their current status (abbreviated for brevity’s sake). She then informed us that last year her group had received approval for Q200,000 of funding from the government but when corruption plagued the economic department’s ranks and the head was ousted his budget went with him. This is typical of the empty promises for which the Guatemalan government is so famous. She is still wondering if and when she’ll get the money. The good that came out of her monologue was her depiction of all the trials and tribulations her Cooperative had endured and the success they’ve still found even without the support of the government. On the ride back to Casas Viejas, Jamie and Don Edgar spoke of how much they liked what she had said. We returned home with our spirits high- confident that we could turn around our Coop’s crisis as other Coops had done before us. Still, we wanted to try our luck at government support and resolved to submit three small project requests for funding.

Saturday morning I worked with Seno Maritza on composing our three funding requests. Initially, I was supposed to work with my counterpart Toribio on the documents but his wife fell ill and he had to take her Chiquimulilla. (I’ve heard many accounts of stomach ailments since my return- not uncommon during the rainy season when the water is even less safe to drink than usual). I was happy to work with Maritza on the project profiles as I have found that if anything actually has a chance of getting done in the Coop- she’ll need to be involved. Not that others don’t work, its just she has the capacity to think critically and analyze ideas in an efficient and productive way.

Maritza is a heaven sent for me. She is a mother of four, including one mentally handicapped son, she is a teacher at the elementary school during the morning and is the director of a preschool she runs out of her own home in the afternoon. She also has taken on a “managerial roll” at the minibank - closing the bank and doing all the checks and balances at about 6pm every day. When I arrived at her house on Saturday morning she was readying a chicken for a stew. I spent the first thirty minutes in her presence chatting at her pila while she worked with efficient hands beheading, cleaning and disemboweling the body of a recently deceased chicken. As she sawed off the chicken’s head she explained to me that she didn’t know how to prepare a chicken until she moved to Casas Viejas (she is from a town outside of Antigua). “My mother-in-law taught me how,” she told me. As she continued talking I stared at the chicken in a daze, focusing on its mouth as its beak opened and closed in rhythm with every thrust of the knife. My stomach began to turn- seeing the face of the animal was a reminder that it was once alive, breathing from that mouth and seeing out of those eyes. When Maritza found that the knife couldn’t finish the job of severing the head, she took the head in one hand and the lower neck in the other and with one swift yank tore the head from the body and dropped it in a bucket. I was relieved that the face was now out of site and concluded that I’d rather not acquire a mother-in-law that would ever want to teach me to perform proper chicken decapitation.

After the chicken was prepared and had been placed in the fridge, we sat down and spent the rest of the afternoon pumping out three proposals for funding; a community drainage project, a minibank project and a request for additional funding for our tienda. I think the only proposal that stands any chance of funding is the community drainage project. I can’t see the government dealing out cash for a bank or store amplification. However, I was happy to help with the writing and glad that the Coop is not sitting idly by but instead taking advantage of opportunities as they present themselves. Sunday I sent the proposals to the appropriate contact via email. Once again, only time will tell...

While departing Maritza’s house her son Rene came in and told us

that the river that cuts through Casas Viejas was overflowing and flooding the North side of town. Heavy rainfall in the mountains was making its way down the canal and emptying out onto numerous plots of land held by town residents- including Don Edgar (his house is the light blue one in the below picture). This was the third time this year that the town suffered from flooding. At this point the it is almost becoming a normality- as I walked the street taking pictures I found groups of kids swimming in their front yards and families hanging out on their porches just watching as the water rose. Some people even posed for pictures, imploring me to come closer to get a better shot. Coincidentally the government proposal Maritza and I had written for drainage was aimed at avoiding this very exact problem.

Sunday afternoon I had my first soccer game in almost four months. I first thought it might be a bad idea to play with my nose still healing but since none of the other girl players challenge for balls in the air I felt I was pretty safe from any more head trauma. I was right and left the game unscathed and with two assists and one goal to my name. We won 5-0.

Today we worked once again on the tienda, this time stocking all the shelves with merchandise. It took 6 hours to place all the products and do an inventory (which I insisted was necessary even though they performed one before leaving the old location.) I met the new shop keeper Hector- very nice young man and I have a feeling we will get along just fine- namely because he seemed on board with my record keeping requests during a little impromptu bookkeeping training I gave him. Tomorrow we open the store at 6:30 AM and I’m heading into this with high hopes!

Over a month ago I embarked on my first visit back to the US since arriving in Guatemala. Leading up to the big trip everyone urged me to prepare myself for reverse culture shock- shock at how clean the US is, at how good it smells, at how efficiently things are run- but after an unexpected mouth gaping moment induced by a wall stacked with American magazines (pop culture overload I guess) at the Newsbeat airport shop in Atlanta, I easily fell right back into the swing of things.

My vacation began with a good old fashioned cross country road trip. My sister Danica was moving from DC to LA and I gladly offered myself up as co-pilot with one stipulation, she would have to teach me to drive stick shift. To be fair, she had no other option since her Suburu is a manual. We practiced my shifting abilities a few times in the parking lot of Mi Casita (the first meal I had back was Mexican- go figure) and although I was no Earnhardt I managed to share driving time without blowing out the transmission. Our route went from DC to Savannah (charming little picture perfect town) to New Orleans (I can’t speak for the rest of NOLA but the French Quarter was alive and kickin’) to Austin (now I know why everyone raves about Austin- A-MAZING) to Balmhorea, TX (um yeah, West Texas, nuff said) to Tucson (I got the best pedicure ever there) to Los Angeles (home sweet home). Danica and I had a great time exploring each city, eating local fare and rocking out in the car to Belinda Carlisle and Katy Perry (we couldn’t escape that California Gurlz song- but it was fitting).

Back in LA I got to grab sushi with the girls,

hang out with Ty at the Warped Tour (wish you had been there Kamille!), watch World Cup with old soccer buddies, enjoy my mom’s birthday dinner with the family and do a couple nights out in Manhattan Beach. As my stay progressed, slowly but surely I realized nothing stateside had really changed. My friends were dealing with the same old drama, the ribs at Johnny P’s tasted just as delectable as they did last year and even Justin Bobby was still on the hills (really MTV? so disappointing). Being back in the states was such a treat but I guess the grass is always greener and after my two weeks romping around the US I was ready to get back to Guatemala.

The Sunday before my departure I was soaking up one last day of fun with my friends down in Manhattan Beach when disaster struck. Kelly, Alexis, Danielle, Kirsten and I decided to partake in a friendly game of beach volleyball. OK, sidebar, anyone that knows me knows that I don’t do a “friendly game” of anything- I’m much too competitive by nature. So in this game of volleyball, when I saw a return ball about to hit sand I dove for it. Unfortunately, so did Kelly’s fiance Joe and we collided, or more precisely, my face slammed against the back of his head. My face went completely numb, my mouth was full of sand and I just started touching my nose and running my tongue along my teeth to make sure they were all still there. Alexis ran over to me and I asked her if there was any blood. The response was affirmative and was confirmed by the newly formed red droplets dripping from my fingers. I remember Alexis saying “Let’s get her to the hospital” and just thinking, “Oh my, I can NOT deal with this right now.” In all honesty, I was more pissed than scared. My perfect last day had just taken a turn for the worse. It didn’t help knowing that getting injured while serving in the Peace Corps is a process. Volunteers are supposed contact the appropriate medical officers before any care or medical services are rendered and there I was in my bathing-suit, no Peace Corps insurance card, no Peace Corps phone numbers, no nothing. Luckily, I had the best friends in the world taking care of me. They all rushed me to the urgent care and before the doctor had finished cleaning and dermabonding my nose Danielle was on the phone with Marjie at the DC headquarters getting all the insurance procedural information for me. Danielle also was the one to pass along the message from Marjie that this incident had put me on medical hold. I could forget about flying back to Guatemala the next day.

The urgent care physician didn’t have the ability to confirm if my nose was indeed broken so I had to wait a few days for the swelling to go down and then make a trip to an ENT doctor to get my nose looked at again. That Thursday I went with my Dad to Dr. Lee’s office in Thousand Oaks. I thought I was prepared for any outcome- either he was going to tell me the nose wasn’t broken and i’d be on a plane back to Guatemala that night or he was going to tell me it was broken and i’d have to live with it (i don’t think Peace Corps pays for nose jobs) and i’d be on a plane back to Guatemala that night. Since I’m tired of writing, (I’m out of blogging shape after taking a month off) I’m going to share my doctor’s office experience via an email I wrote to my girl friends after returning home from the visit.

Hey girls,

Just got back from the doctors- most traumatizing experience ever. He

performed a closed nasal reduction which basically translates to

"break nose back into place". I think the whole ordeal was worse than

when I actually broke my nose in the first place. The worst part was

that I was awake during the entire procedure- first he stuck long

needles up my nose to give me local anesthesia, then he grabbed these

huge metal prongs - long enough to do a frontal lobotomy, shoved them

up my nose and started thrusting my nose back into place. So

excruciatingly painful and all the while i'm hearing the cracks and

pops. When he was done molding my nose he pulled up a mirror and says,

"doesn't it look better?". I look at my poor face, nose blotchy with

black and blue and yellow and red, blood starting to run down my

nose again and my cheeks all puffy- i looked so awful I responded,

"um, not really" Then he bandaged me up and put a little plastic

cast over the bridge of my nose. I was in shock. I’m pretty

sure I left the office hyperventilating I was so traumatized.

That was at 9am. I'm feeling a lot better- i've been reassured by

everyone that after the swelling goes down its going to look back to

normal- I just can't get the picture of the way it looked in the

mirror out of my mind. Also, the Peace Corps has been really helpful

and accommodating- that Marjie is a gem. The doctor wants to do a

follow-up next week so i'll be hanging out at my parents for a little

longer. Looking on the bright side, i'll have all the time in the

world to study for the GRE.

So thats the update, not pretty but i guess it could always be worse

right? At least I still have all my teeth!

That pretty much says it all. The following three weeks I spent at home recuperating and studying for the GRE (I did manage to make it out, nose cast and all, for the 4th of July).

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that before the accident I was supposed to go back to Guatemala on June 28th but I also had a second trip back to The States planned for July 16th-27th to take the GRE and go to my friends Ally and Jon’s wedding. I was still on medical hold up and through my second planned vacation and therefore, still able to take the GRE and attend the wedding. I was finally medically cleared to go back to country on July 28th. On the 29th I was on a red eye back to Guatemala.

My dad always complains that in my blog I tell a story but don’t explain how my experiences are effecting me on an emotional level (that is what you get for having a psychiatrist as a father). So I’m going to use the end of this post to share some of my more internal thoughts.

The last few days leading up to my departure from California I started getting worried about coming back to Guatemala. I knew that the prolonged stay in the states would make the transition back to my much slower paced and less luxurious life in Guatemala all the more difficult. To explain, being in the Peace Corps is like being on an emotional roller coaster. When I’m here in Guatemala, although few and far between, I do have very lonely days, days that make me miss my life in the states, days that make me yearn for the personal connections I have with friends and family at home, days that leave me empty and in need of that sense of oneness and belonging that being in a foreign culture prohibits. These days of solitude are then counterbalanced by days of extreme bliss, days that make me feel like I have a purpose in life, days that make me feel loved, days that make me whole. My life here is characterized by this mixture of extreme highs and extreme lows. With that said, I’ve been afraid that coming off the heals of such a wonderfully (minus the broken nose bit) “high” trip home, I might experience an exaggerated “low” when I get back to my site.

Luckily, a couple days ago I called my host mom and Eslin to tell them i’d be back in Casas Viejas this week and hearing their enthusiastic voices on the other end of the line say they miss me and that they’ve been waiting for me to come back reassured me that the transition won’t be as bad as I’d imagined. I also get to see some of my favorite PC people Kamille and Trish before heading back to site. Trisha/Pati/The Dish was medically separated back in March/April and was recently reinstated so her arrival has been a LONG time coming and of course, I can never get enough of my Kamille! All of this has helped turned my fears and anxieties about returning into excitement. I am also eager to get back to my town, walk around the streets, shop in the little mercadito, visit my family and Coop socios, lay in my hammock and most of all get back to work. I did leave my Coop in crisis and although I know they have been surviving and will always be able to survive without me, I still have the desire to do what I can to make their work and lives a little better.

The season’s first major tropical storm, hit Guatemala with ruthless fury last week. She came on the heals of two earthquakes and a volcanic eruption. As if those two catastrophes weren’t enough, Agatha was the third and final blow rounding out the trifecta of destruction.

The rains began on Wednesday and fell nonstop until Friday. I remember this because Friday morning was clear enough for me to get a load of laundry done, or at least I had hopes of getting it done. About 30 minutes after I hung my last pair of shorts on the line to dry the rains picked up again and I had to move my clothes under my rancho. Friday was also when I started getting phone calls from Peace Corps. First from the Duty Officer, then Ziara my project specialist, then David the Safety and Security Officer. To be honest, I didn’t know what they were all worried about. All the conversations went a little like this,

Them: “How is everything down there?”

Me: “Fine, all is pretty normal.”

Them: “How bad is the rain?”

Me: “Its been raining for a few days but nothing too out of the norm. I’m kinda enjoying it . The rain has cooled it down a bit here.”

Them: “Ok well let us know if the rain starts to cause any problems”

The exception to this dialogue was my conversation with David. He also informed me that I was being put on Standfast along with Trent, the other coastal volunteer. Being put on Standfast meant that I wasn’t able to leave my site until further notice. After this restriction was put on me I began talking with my neighbors about the storm. All of them said that the rain was typical of the season and that there really wasn’t anything to worry about. So worry I did not. Friday passed and then Saturday I got another round of phone calls. Another from Zaira, another from David and a third from Johanna, the medical nurse on duty. “What is all the fuss about?” I thought. I went along with my daily chores, then headed over to Seño Lili and Fernando’s for a lunch of caldo de mariscos (seafood soup). As soon as I made it upstairs where they had prepared the tables under their second story rancho I got another phone call from David. He informed me that the storm was getting worse and that I was being consolidated to Antigua with Trent. A driver would be out to pick me up in three to four hours. “Now this all is becoming serious”. I told my family that I was being consolidated but still had time to sit down to lunch and enjoy their delicious feast.

At about 4 PM Chepe, our Peace Corps driver, and Trent arrived at Casas Viejas. I loaded in my big backpack (I wanted to go prepared- with laptop, playing cards, books, enough clothes for a week...) and we were off. The entire trip the rain was pounding on the windshield and looking out the side windows I could see the sugar plantations begin to flood and pools of water growing rapidly over once green grazing land. Despite the bad road conditions, we were making good time. At 7:30 we were just about 45 minutes outside of Antigua when we came to our first line of red lights. We slowed to a crawl behind a seemingly endless line of cars that disappeared into the darkness in front of us. We moved at a snails pace for about 20 minutes until Chepe flagged down a driver coming the opposite direction and asked what was ahead, “No hay paso” (there is no passing) was the drivers response. We assumed there must have been a mudslide or damaged bridge ahead but it was getting to late to wait it out or investigate. Chepe decided it best if we try a different route and he hooked a Uey and we were off towards the Autopista. Another fifteen minutes passed on the new route when we hit our second round of red lights. This time we found ourselves behind six lanes of red brake lights lined up behind six toll booths with red lights above their windows. We turned on the news and found out a few big rigs had crashed on the toll road blocking all lanes. Chepe contacted the Peace Corps and it was decided that we would wait out the evenings storm in Esquintla.

We pulled up to our Peace Corps approved roach motel at about 9pm. When we got out of the car and asked the motel owner if he had suggestions of where we could go to eat he recommended his own Chinese restaurant attached to the motel. “General Pollo, muy bueno” he said in chinese accented spanish. We put our stuff down and I grubbed on my first chinese meal in 10 months. I ordered the General Pollo, (how could you not after the owner’s own endorsement) and I was not disappointed.

The next morning we walked around Esquintla a bit and found absolutely nothing of interest. We had a quick breakfast and bunkered up in our motel rooms waiting for the green light to get back on the road. Trent and I entertained ourselves with a movie I had brought. I’ll also mention here that I couldn’t have asked for a better consolidation mate. Trent and I got along really well during this whole fiasco. It was great to be around someone that was calm and looked at the experience as I did- “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade”. We both made the best of our situation - just chatting and going with the flow. At noon we got word from the local police that cars could pass on the Esquintla - Antigua route but that the movement was VERY slow. They weren’t lying. We got on the road immediately and waited in the same line we had been in the night before for 4 hours before we came upon the road damage. Our assumption the night before was confirmed. A river that normally ran under a bridge had overflown and covered the two lane highway with mud and debris. A John Deere was on the scene clearing a one lane path. They were allowing cars to pass 10 at a time. Ten from our side, ten from the other side. Every once in a while a sedan would get stuck in the mud and the Deere would have to go down and tow it out- slowing down the process. When it was finally our turn to pass, Chepe put our little SUV into second gear and broke threw to the other side without a problem. Getting on the other side of that mess was the best feeling ever. We were finally going to make it to Antigua. The rest of the route was ridden with minor mud/rockslides and road closures. We made it to our hostel at about 7 PM. A 7 hour trip that normally takes 1 hour.

When we arrived in Antigua we found a handful of other volunteers who were also on standfast in Antigua. We all grouped together and told stories of our personal storm experiences. I shared with them the story of my own town. Through phone calls back to Casas Viejas I had learned that the town was flooded Saturday night. Seño Lili recounted the destruction- homes flooded to their ceilings, cars completely covered by the water and livestock and chickens drowned. The school was flooded and shrimp and saltworks operations were destroyed. It was devastating but luckily no one was injured. Seño Lili told me she was glad that I got out when I did because she thought the sight of it all would have been too overwhelming for me to handle. When I asked about her home she said it wasn’t damaged and the water didn’t reach my casita either. We happen to be on the south side of the town, far away from the river that overflowed and caused all the flooding. I also learned that a main bridge along the route from my town to Esquintla was washed away in the storm. It was then impossible for me to get back to my site unless I found a new route through Guatemala city, to the border of El Salvador and back up to my town. This was a main reason for Peace Corps keeping Trent and me in Antigua.

As days went on we all learned more and more about the destruction that Agatha had caused. Roads were washed away, homes flooded, mudslides took lives and a large sink hole that seemingly opened to the middle of the earth covered a block in Guatemala city. A few of these tragedies hit close to home.

On Wednesday we found out that major landslides had devastated Ciudad Vieja and Dueñas, both towns near Antigua that Peace Corps volunteers and employees call home. Sadly, Eduardo’s, one of my Peace Corps Spanish teachers, home was completely destroyed by a mudslide that hit Ciudad Vieja. After learning about this tragedy Trent and I, along with about 10 other PCVs, went to help dig out homes in his town. When we arrived the scene was unbelievable. A mudslide had blocked up the local canal that deposits water rushing from Volcan de Agua above the city. With the canal clogged, the mud and debris still falling from the volcano’s slopes had to find another route down the mountain. The streets became the new route and mud poured into the city filling a 5 block radius. The town is on a slope so some homes had mud about waist deep throughout. Unfortunately, Eduardo's house is on the lower level of a slope and when the mud busted through the doors of his neighbor’s home above, it rushed down into his house- filling the entire first floor- leaving just the tops of doorways and windows visible above the sea of mud. Unfortunately, we were unable to begin digging out his house because there was too much mud they needed to wait for a machine or pump to help with the work. We ended up helping out at a few of his neighbors homes, shoveling mud, dragging it out to the street in buckets and wheel barrels. A tractor would sweep up the mud from the street, load it in a dump truck and it would be carried away to the local soccer field to be dumped.

Our week in Antigua wasn’t all depressing. With each new day that Peace Corps informed Trent and I that, once again, we were not able to go back to our sites, we took advantage of the time we had to explore the city. We went to see an art exhibit, watched live cuban music and climbed to la cruz to overlook the city.

Finally, I received the green light to come back to my site on Saturday - after a week of being away. Peace Corps mandated that I drive back to my site with Chepe in a PC SUV because my normal route home is still not passable. As I made my way back to Casas Viejas I realized that the damaged bridge isn’t just making my trip home more difficult but is blocking the only passage between my town and Chiquimulilla where a lot of people from my town go to school, work, shop, do their banking etc. Until that bridged is fixed, things are gonna be more difficult for people here. When I got back to site all the water had subsided but remnants of the storm were still visible. All around me were fallen trees, water damage lines on walls of homes, furniture sitting in the sun drying and cars being taken apart. I walked to the local mercadito to buy some vegetables and found three of my socios sitting on the stoop. José Angel, Don Alfonso and Don Adán. All of them had suffered damages to their homes. As we made small talk they sat solemnly with their heads down, completely void of their normally cheery disposition. Almost all of the socios in my coop were effected by the storm. Agatha couldn’t have come at a worse time. As our coop remains in debt our socios will have to shift their focus from saving the Coop to rebuilding their own lives. I still don't know how the storm will ultimately effect the town, the cooperative or my work here. As I walked out of the market I said goodbye to Don Adán and Don Alfonso, expressed regret for their loss and they said, “Gracias, seguimos adelante” (thank you, we will get through this).

Seems as though my camera's focus has decided to quit on me. Unless I want our disinfectants to be portrayed a bit blurry, the hunt for a camera toting Casas Viejan begins a new. Wish me luck.

I was on the first leg of a 12 hour trip up to Coban. Sitting in the middle of a chicken bus when I spotted an adorable little Guatemalan girl peering over a brown pleather seat back. Her face, picture perfect. I pulled out my camera to snap a shot. Pressed the ON/OFF button. The camera turned on and the lens expanded and then I heard a “chit chit chit chit chit” sound. “Not good” I thought. I looked down at my camera’s view screen and the warning, “Lens error, please restart camera.” flashed and the screen went black. I turned the camera off as recommended by the device and then turned it back on. “Chit chit chit chit chit” + error message. “Oh no, don’t do this to me camera” I said to myself. But after ten consecutive chit chants followed by error messages I gave up and placed the camera- zoom lens still extended- back into its carrying case and dropped it into my travel costal. I sulked a bit in self pity. Of course my camera breaks on my way up to Alta Verapaz where not only was I going to run my first International 1/2 Marathon but also was going to visit Semuc Champey- ranked no. 27 on the Rough Guide’s list of “30 things not to miss” in Guatemala (Casas Viejas didn’t make the list... sad, i know). After a good three minutes of silent pouting I reminded myself that Kamille and Cara would surely take plenty of pictures. I resolved to rely on their documentation expertise to supply me with evidence that I indeed was present at the previously mentioned momentous events. And luckily they succeeded beautifully.

The day before the marathon I got to partake in the Coban “Welcome Party”- a get together for all the Verapaz volunteers to welcome the new volunteers to the region. We had a marvelous BBQ at Kamille’s house at the Chirrepec Cooperative (don’t know if you remember but I wrote about this Cooperative during training- it is where the Ag Marketing group had our Field Based Training). The morning after the BBQ we all woke up early, had our breakfast of champions and headed to the race. I was so excited to run- partly because I was looking forward to the culmination of all my months of training (read: I was sick of sticking to a strict running schedule) but mostly because I knew the experience would be very memorable. I was not disappointed. The entire route was beautiful- rolling green hills and small villages- but my favorite part of the race was at mile 9. They had about a hundred Qeqchi school girls lined on both sides of the road in their traditional traje clapping and singing for the runners. I definitely turned off the ipod for that blissful minute of cheers- i may have even teared up a bit- the whole moment was just surreal.

After the race we relaxed another night at Casa Camila- another BBQ, bonfire and round of roasted angelitos (marshmallows). Monday morning Kamille, Cara, Chad, Nick and I headed up to Lanquin to explore Semuc Champey. We had a fun filled day of caving with only candle light to guide the way and wading in the the shallow waters of the Semuc Champey ponds.

I’ll let the photos do the talking.

Upon my return to site I began preparing for a meeting that I had been invited to by Rosa Solaris, the Santa Rosa director of Secretaria de Obras Sociales de la Esposa del Presidente (SOSEP) (translation- director of the Santa Rosa branch of the office of the First Lady of Guatemala). I met Rosa while she stopped off in Casas Viejas during her current tour of the region. She has been charged with encouraging and supporting women’s group projects and she chose our group for further participation. I of course was adamant about participating. Hoping this opportunity would open up doors for new sales of our products (something we desperately need right now). The meeting was in Taxisco and I brought Loyda with me. Loyda is the president of my women’s group and is also a socio in the Coop so she was the perfect candidate.

We arrived in Taxisco with disinfectant samples and jars of jam in tow. The meeting turned out to be extremely beneficial- we met the president of the Association of Hoteliers in Monterrico (main tourist destination). He was extremely interested in purchasing our disinfectant for his hotel and selling our jam in his gift shop and thought the other hotel owners would have a similar sentiment. He requested that we create a one page price list of our products with pictures so he can share it with the remaining hotel heads. Perfect opportunity. Only problem is I have a busted camera and only one week to get this product page put together. Today I started asking around if anyone in town owns a digital camera. Haven’t secured one yet but alas, good things come to those who wait, for just moments ago, when I was checking my camera for the error message verbiage to accurately recount it for this blog post, I hit the ON/OFF button, and there were no “chits” and miraculously the lens retracted and the camera turned on as if nothing had ever gone wrong. It only took time and patience to fix what was broken.

The sluggish yet necessary ascent out of our financial slump has begun. Yesterday we successfully produced 50 1-gallon jugs of disinfectant to sell locally. Four socios showed up to complete the task- each worked swiftly and with purpose and got the job done in less than an hour and a half. Don Alfonso was on water duty, filling up gallons of water for each new batch. Don Nando was the steady stirrer mixing the ingredients as Seño Maritza dutifully measured and poured the various components into the oversized basin. I worked cutting and adhering the new labels Jenny and I designed earlier in the week. Seño Lili had the least pleasant job, filling the empty gallons with the finished disinfectant. I say least pleasant because although all of us had to endure the stinging odor of the chemical components, Seño Lili was the only one that had a constant stream of the liquid being poured over her hands. I urged her to wear gloves. “Next time” she said. Word to the wise, those “may irritate skin” warnings on cleaning supplies are not to be taken lightly. Despite another common warning “keep out of reach of children”, we managed to enlist ourselves some little kiddy helpers to aid in our efforts. Don Nando has a small army of children (six or seven- I’ve never gotten an accurate count) that jumped at the opportunity get in on our assembly line fun. His daughters took their positions as lid tighteners and his youngest son began stacking the finished product. I must disclose that the adults warned the kids of the dangers of disinfectant, “don’t stand too close” and advised them not to get the disinfectant on their skin or it will burn. The latter warning was justified in Seño Lili’s case where large quantities of the solution was in contact with her skin for a lengthy period of time, but we all know a little spritz of cleaning agent on the skin isn’t gonna kill anyone. However, Nando’s youngest son took the warning very seriously. When he got a splash of disinfectant on his leg he started panicking, “it’s burning, its burning”, the little five year old yelped, “Be a man.” Don Nando huffed from his position over a tub of green pine disinfectant. Tears began to run down the little kids cheeks and his face morphed into an expression of aggravated suffering. I really think he thought he was going to die or at the very least loose the tainted limb. I couldn’t help but laugh. His mom came to the rescue and wiped his leg with a washcloth. All better.

We finished the first four batches- lemon, pine, cinnamon, almond- and had enough daylight to produce one last batch. When Seño Maritza took stock of what was left of the ingredients she found that there was only lemon and cinnamon fragrance left and green and brown die. This tested the team’s knowledge of quality control. Seño Maritza suggested, “Why don’t we use the green color with the lemon scent?” This may be a valid proposition here in Guatemala since the word for lemon, “limón” is used to describe a lime. Limes are green so to them this made perfect sense. “But we used yellow dye for the last batch of lemon and green dye for the pine, you don’t want to confuse customers.” I injected. “But “limones” are green”, replied Don Alfonso. “Yes, but you need to keep your product uniform for quality control purposes.” “She has a point.” said Seño Maritza, “Lets do another batch of cinnamon.” Seño Maritza is always first to take my advice and I love her for it.

We finished the last batch, gave ourselves a pat on the back and parted ways. Now to the hard part- selling those 50 gallon jugs. When all is said and done we expect a profit of about Q1,000. Such a tiny amount when compared to our Q50,000 debt. Baby steps.

Little has changed in regards to the status of my poor Coop in despair. They are still broke and it continues to be a daily struggle to pay workers, creditors AND scrounge up enough dough to buy food for the school’s daily snack. However, there are a few glimmers of light; some creative and positive changes that are occurring in response to the economic crisis we have dug ourselves into.

Getting with the times, our minibank has had a little bailout of its own. Five affluent townspeople (including some socios) have taken it upon themselves to save the bank from sinking. They have removed all of the Coops money and infused the account with about Q20,000 of their own funds. They now supervise Selvin, our “banker” (if you can call him that), like hawks on a field mouse (funny, now that I think of it, Selvin kinda looks mousy). Every day they revise all transactions and count the cash on hand. Its sad that it took a meltdown before anyone payed attention to the money that flows in and out of that little enterprise. Better late than never, i guess.

Another creative development... on Friday we had our monthly Coop meeting. After a good hour of pointing fingers, questioning “where did all the money go and why do we not have any record of where it went” and solid declarations of, “we will not let this break us” the discussion turned to “how do we get “pilas” and fix this?” (Side note: pilas translates to battery- like as in energizer- but is also a term used for clever or smart). Some said we need to sell more disinfectant, others said we need to outsource the purchase of food for the schools, but the winner, the idea that took the cake, was the suggestion that we should hold a raffle. We are going to make additional funds by selling about 200 Q5 raffle tickets around town. The prize: a used sewing machine (whether it is functioning is still TBD). I have to hand it to the socios for pulling together during this rough patch. Its a positive sign that they are gonna pound some pavement and make money out of nothing. And even if this only earns them Q1,000 of the Q30,000 they are in debt, at least its a step in the right direction. To do my part, I have offered to help make the tickets with Jenny and design posters promoting the raffle throughout town.

All of these tactics are a step in the right direction but I still find myself pondering the possibility of a cure all idea that would restore my Coops financial stability. Then I have to remind myself that although a magic wand approach may help their current situation, would it change their business savvy? Probably not. Its the little things that will make a big difference in the long run. For instance, they are finally realizing that i’m not being excessive by urging them to keep better records. Its rewarding to hear socios in the meeting mandate that the new treasurer keep a book of “entradas y salidas”- something that I have been preaching since my bookkeeping charla in December. I have had my first real success on this front- a pro-treasurer has been assigned to help with the bookkeeping (remember my treasurer can’t read or write) and I have my first meeting with them both on Wednesday to start keeping better financial records. No magic wand will be present. Just pen, paper and a calculator.

“Estamos en crisis” “We are in a crisis” is a common phrase fluttering around the coop these days. I consider it a valid statement seeing as I have just learned my Coop’s financials are in complete shambles. And by shambles I mean we’re straight up broke. The sad thing is no one really knows exactly where the money went. I don’t assume fowl-play, just poor planning and management by the Coop Directors. Oh, and it doesn’t help that our treasurer doesn’t read or write (but its totally ok because he says, “its all up here” with a point to the noggin).

I’m going to try to explain what has happened as best as I understand it. I think this will be a good lesson for you all on third world money management. Ok so, lets back-up a bit to November when I arrived in Casas Viejas. From what I can recall, the Coop had a healthy balance in their bank account, maybe about Q16,000. At that venture, the coop was managing their tienda, had just decided to invest in the salinas for a third year, and voted to open up the minibank. To give some perspective, the Tienda maybe rakes in Q500 in profit on a good month and the minibank about Q100. I did a cost of production with my Treasurer for the salinas in February and found that at the end of the season (December- April) they will have invested about Q55,000 in the salt production. How would we pay for this you may ask? Ideally we'd be getting funds by selling our salt- yet we weren't selling ANY (whole 'nother blog post). Luckily though, in February we received another source of income. We were contracted by the local schools to source the ingredients for their daily refracciones (snacks)- they would deposit money into our bank account and we’d purchase and deliver the food. In March they deposited Q48,000 for the next three months worth of snacks. Are you still with me? Lets recap. Started off with Q16,000, the tienda and minibank = no real income generation to speak of, the salina needs Q55,000 to operate, and the schools have given us Q48,000 to buy snacks to last through April. Two weeks ago, when shit hit the fan (sorry mom, its the best descriptor i’ve got) we hadn’t sold ANY salt. So where are we getting the Q55,000 to pay for the saltworks to continue operating you may ask? Classic case of robbing peter to pay paul. The president was using the only money we had in the bank- money from the schools- to pay the saltworks expenses. No one was keeping tabs on the money so it was just being tossed around willy nilly (mom is that better?). Unfortunately, half way through April the funds ran out. Not only did we not have money to pay for the salinas but we didn’t have money for the schools. Yeah, sorry kiddies, no snacks for you for the next month. Seno Maritza explains it as thus, “the Coop had a fiesta with the money and now we are feeling a pain in the head”. Yep. all gone. My coop is completely broke, actually they aren’t just broke their financials are in the red- a deep negative maroonish red.

So here we are en crisis, up to our eyebrows in debt- can’t pay the salina, tienda or minibank employees. Jokingly our treasurer asked the employees if they’d like their salary in salt (funny because the word originates from when Roman soldiers were paid in salt- nerd fact - don’t judge). Today though things started looking up, we got our first salt sale of the season. A guy from the capital bought Q8,500 worth of it. Unfortunately, I think we are still going to be digging ourselves out of debt for quite a long time to come. On the bright side, Its giving me a lot of work- first task to tackle- teaching the treasurer financial book keeping by dictation.

Today I was at the Cooperative store when an old man hobbled up the stoop in his shabby work pants held up by a worn out belt with rust on the buckle. I’d never seen him before but immediately Eslin turned to me and said, “Here come your mangos.” The man was carrying a pink bucket and as he made it into the store he heaved the load onto the counter. “My mangos?” I asked a bit confused, I didn’t remember putting an order in with this little old fella. The old man asked for a plastic bag and began unloading the mangos. I just stood there still unsure of what exactly was going on. “These are my mangos? Who told him I like mangos?” I asked. Eslin replied, “Maybe Seno Maritza or Seno Lili.” When the old man was almost to the bottom of the bucket he turned to Eslin and Selvin and said, “Here are yours” and handed both of them a handful of the fruit. Then he turned to me and said, “Your sister already left?” “Yes,” I said, “she left last Thursday.” “Uh hu” he replied, then took his empty bucket and hobbled out the door and back to where ever it was that he came from.

I gladly took the mangos he left for me. I was still confused as to how he knew I like mangos but I wasn’t surprised that he had asked about my sister. Ever since I returned back to Casas Viejas after Danica hopped on her flight back to the states everyone asks me, “Y tu hermana pue?” “And your sister?” I sadly have to reply, “Ya se fue” “She already left.” My tortilla lady, my next door neighbors, the woman who is always outside setting up her tienda when I head off on my morning run, kids I teach english to, an old man with mangos, they all have asked me where my sister is. Danica obviously made quite the impression on the people of my town.

Before Danica arrived I tried to prepare everyone by warning them that my sister and I look alike. I figured they’d think we were twins since everyone who met my friend Kamille thought we were sisters (Kamille and I don’t look at all a like- we are just both white). The Kamille comment wasn’t surprising since people also asked me if i am related to my soccer teammate Ericka (Ericka and I REALLY don’t look at all alike- we just both have light eyes). I was convinced that when my sister came no one would be able to tell us apart. This was not exactly the case. The day Danica arrived we were walking to my house when we passed my neighbor Milbia and the first thing she said was, “De veras, ustedes son como dos gotitas de agua, solo una es un poco mas gordita.” Translation, “You guys are like two little drops of water, just one is a little fatter.” I started cracking up- I’m used to everyone talking freely about my weight here. However, my sister was not amused.

While Danica was here we spent some time at the beach, ate a delicious seafood soup prepared by Fernando, helped in Jenny’s English class and baked mango banana bread with my women’s group. It was so wonderful to have family back in my town. I loved showing her how I live in Casas Viejas- there is only so much i can share over the phone and through email and my blog. Sadly, Danica’s stay was all too brief and now I’m reminded daily that she isn’t here by the endless questioning of the townspeople. I wonder how many weeks are going to have to pass before I no longer hear, “Y tu hermana pue?”

I was riding the bus the other day and had a seat all to myself when the bus started to fill up with people. I’m used to riding packed buses- so packed that i’m only afforded seat real estate for one buttock. So, knowing that the empty spaces around me would soon be occupied I stopped reading my book and began to check out the oncoming passengers. Y’all might be familiar with this game. I like to play it on airplanes when I’m sitting in the aisle seat and the middle seat next to me is empty. I size-up every man woman and child passing down that aisle trying to discern who I'm going to share my personal space with for the next four hours. “Well, hello there really hot guy in the Princeton tee, come sit here. No, no, where are you going? Don’t keep walking... oh god, please don’t let it be Mr. Canadian Tuxedo with the runny nose, I saw you use your sleeve...” and so the mental conversation goes. I play the same game here, only we are on a bus and the guys t-shirt reads “World’s Best Mom” or “Give me candy or I’ll steel your boyfriend” (no joke- i’ve seen both being worn by Guatemalan men). So, there I was entire row to myself as the passengers started filing in. I spotted a happy family; mother, daughter and son squeezing down the aisle and thought, please let it be, three of them plus one of me makes four across, everyone wins. I gave the mom a warm no-teeth smile trying to coax her into electing my aisle for her family. Sure enough it worked and the family of three took their seats in my row. The mom and sister on the opposite bench and the little boy climbed up and sat next to me. This little boy was as adorable as could be- the type of kid you can’t help but want to hug. His legs were dangling over the edge of the seat and he had these sweet curious eyes and a cute little button nose. The first 20 minutes on the bus he sat gingerly peering out the window or observing the other passengers. He was awfully well behaved. About 30 minutes into the ride he began to get a little sleepy, doing the head-bob until his sister reached over and shook him up straight. By minute 45 he was in full sleep mode, slowly sliding down the pleather school bus seat-back until his little head rested gently on my left arm. I tried not to move, I didn’t want to wake him. It was such a nice change to have this little angel resting on me instead of the tired and overworked laborers or sour and over-served drunks for whom I'm used to serving as a human pillow. I sat there, as still as I could be on the bumpy road, actually relishing this innocent invasion of my personal space. And as I sat there I realized that i’d forgotten how comforting it feels to be a shoulder for someone to lean on. It was a short moment of bliss for as soon as his older sister looked over and noticed his head resting on my arm, she swept him up and put him on her lap. And then, just like that, I had the seat to myself again.

p.s. the picture above has nothing to do with the bus incident. Its a picture of my neighbors Leslie, Benicio and one of their older cousins I took from my yard looking into theirs.. I just thought this story needed some cute kids.