When I arrived at the bus stop today coming home from Antigua, I discovered that it was raining. It had been cloudy all day, but I didn’t expect actual water to fall. What made this occurrence of precipitation right in the middle of the dry season even more strange, was that it was the second time it has rained during the dry season this year. The last time it rained during the dry season was, I’m told by my Spanish teacher, Guadalupe, about 5 years ago and it was due to some really large hurricane or storm.

You and I would almost undoubtedly attribute this odd weather to the ever more increasingly pressing issue of global climate change. In fact, I read in the national newspaper Prensa Libre that the climate summit in Copenhagen listed Guatemala as one of the 10 countries to be most affected by global climate change– meaning increases in floods, droughts, disease, hurricanes, and much more.

Now when I said before that “you and I” would attribute it to global climate change, I was insinuating that not every Guatemalan would. And I was basing this assumption off of a number of generalized observations: the fact that it appears to me that more Guatemalans read the smutty Nuestro Diario, with its scantily clad bikini models and gory photos of gang violence victims gracing the front page than they do the Prensa, which gave front page deference to the aforementioned article; the immense amount of trash that litters the streets; the way that every single chicken bus exudes scandalous amounts of acrid black smoke as it pulls away from the bus stop; just the typical things that would alarm any environmentalist in the U.S. But back to my point: for these and many other reasons, I assumed that this hot button phrase “global climate change” was not at the tip of the typical Guatemalan tongue– including my family and others in my town. Read more…

Several days ago I had one of those sudden moments of insight into the workings of my mind that shocked me and excited me at the same time. I was with Fina and her sister Irma, recounting the tale of the neck-walking “grio” (that would be a HUGE brown grasshopper, bigger than my thumb, and yes the neck upon which it did the walking would be mine, horror) and I suddenly realized that I felt a little bit uncertain about the words I was using. They were nodding along and laughing, and I knew that the words were right but it took me a minute to realize that they felt strange because I wasn’t speaking English in my head and finding the Spanish equivalent, I was picturing specific actions in my head associated with a Spanish word. I felt uncertain because I didn’t even KNOW what English word I would have been trying to say. Read more…

Tamales are the traditional Christmas food in Guatemala. You make a huge batch and send some home with all your family members and friends that come visiting. It’s a great gift; They’re even wrapped like little presents! And yesterday I had the privilege of learning how to make these corn-based parcels of joy.

I got home a little too late to learn the ingredients in the “masa” or corn mash, and the red sauce, although I know it contains several different types of chilies (which is not to say that this is a spicy dish– Guatemalans don’t like spicy food.) But I did get to learn how to assemble them, which to me had always seemed the most daunting part.

Take a large plantain leaf, place it upside-down on a small dish and put a section of softer plantain leaf that has been soaked in water in the center. Here throw on a generous scoop of “masa” and add a ladle-full of red sauce. Mix this with a spoon and then put a chunk of raw pork in the center. Cover it up with the “masa” as if you were burying a small piece of treasure (you can think of the cooked tamale as the treasure chest, if you want– however as far as barriers to treasures go this is a really good one to have, for it is easily dispatched and decidedly delicious). Grab both edges of the plantain leaf and roll them down like the top of a cereal bag, then bend one end of the leaf back so that you make a pocket, tap it on the dish to make sure all the “masa” settles into the pocket before folding down the top end and then tying it with a piece of dried vine, as I said before, like a little present. Now you simply put it in a pot of water so that it will boil and cook the meat

Fina and I made 70 tamales. With glee, I later overheard her telling her sister that she was surprised that I got the hang of it on the very first try– she had been expecting to show me how to do it, and then just have to re-do my tamale for me. Thank goodness I’m a better tamale maker than I am a tortilla-maker, otherwise my cooking reputation here would be utterly dismal.

(Cross-posted from the Current TV News Blog) Read on Current HERE

My first impression of Guatemala was that the place I was living in was not “rural” as I had expected because everything in the little town in which I live is concrete and cinder block. There’s an internet café, and buses thundering past all the time. Also one thing that struck me the very first night was that they’re much more tolerant of noise here– there was music blaring until at least 2 am that Saturday. But now I don’t even notice it, so I guess it’s just what they’re used to.

My house here is not really like my home in the US in many ways. Here, there’s no central air, so having a window or door that isn’t perfectly sealed doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. We have no washing machine, so we wash our clothes by hand and line dry them. The weirdest thing to me though, was that they have a TV (with cable, so lucky) and a TV watching area, but no comfy couch to lounge on while watching. They just have plastic chairs. By now though I don’t even notice these physical differences, I consider my house here to be very comfortable.

So that’s my “house”, but my “home” here, my family and the daily activities of the household, is very much like my home in the US, if not more functional. My host-mom is a housewife, and she makes three meals a day for me and the rest of the family, we always have dinner together at 7. She is so thoughtful and has said things to me that my own mother would have. My host-father drives a water truck to fill people’s water tanks and also has land where he grows leeks (which we’ve had in meals and are very good. They get trucked to the US for sale apparently.) I have three brothers who are all in college including one for a business degree, and one who wants to become a heart surgeon. The youngest is 16, the oldest 23, and none of them are married because they want to get good jobs first. I see that as a kind of rare thing here, but I really think its good. They go to church all the time and are always visiting their family who live close by. Read more…

On December 7, 2009 at 6 pm Guatemalans and gringos alike began the official Christmas season with a daring display of pyrotechnics in the traditional “quema del diablo” or “burning of the devil.” Looming large and leering demonically near the entrance of Antigua proper, a statue of a devil was perched on a base of household trash and set on fire at the onset of darkness. In towns all across Guatemala, families brought out small piles of household trash and burned it in front of their homes, getting rid of bad spirits in preparation for the happy holiday season.

Though initially uninspired to attend the event because of laziness, I made myself follow the guideline I set back in October, which is never to opt out of an experience just because I don´t feel like picking myself up and going (you wouldn´t believe how many times I have discovered something beautiful, cool, or moving because this simple rule.)

And, as you might have guessed, this turned out to be a very cool experience indeed. Despite the fact that the crowd numbered possibly more than 1,500 people, Luis, Michael and I had an amazing view-maybe even the best view- owing to our having clambered on top of a fire truck which was ready to respond should any of the fireworks land precariously close to one of the two gas stations within 500 yards of the burning devil (as Michael is fond of saying, and is almost always true, “That would definitely be illegal in the U.S.”)

As I stood on the truck taking in the scene, its flashing red lights lighting up one side of my face and ash drifting through the air like snow flakes, I suddenly realized that my typical role in photographing other people doing strange or cool things had been reversed- so we´ll see if a picture of Michael, Luis & I shows up in any of the tourist magazines here. Ha!

Just as suddenly as that small realization came the sound of fresh fireworks cracking, and as I whipped my head towards the source of the noise I saw the most “illegal in the U.S.” thing yet—a man with a caging of lit fireworks hoisted on his back was charging around the square, purposefully approaching groups of onlookers to provoke screams and speedy flight as the fireworks shot straight at them. Luis informs me that this brave man is called “el torrito” or “the little bull.” Apparently he just heightens the excitement of the celebration… but once again I was thankful for my perch on top of something so singularly fire retardant.

The Salazar-Che family (my family) has a Toyota truck. I couldn’t tell you what year or model, but I think its unique enough that none of these labels matter anyway. It’s comparatively small in size from what most would today consider a “truck”, what with all the insinuations that if it doesn’t have a trillion horsepower or a hefty combination of letters and numbers in its name then its not manly enough to haul your junk.

Anyway… this little truck is red(ish) and the windshield is cracked in a few places. The top of the windshield has a sticker that tints the light purple and says “Guiame Senor” (Guide me, God). There are rosary beads wrapped around the rearview mirror, and a small dalmation beanie baby sits on the dashboard (Fina uses it to defrost the windows when its rainy out). The dash has a little, I guess you would call it a table cloth, of fabric that I think matches well with the outer décor. The steering wheel is wrapped in blue, green, red, and white plastic, braided in a neat sort of way. The driver’s side window is either down or (mostly) up, but whichever way you choose to have it you have to grasp the glass and pull it, then use the window crank to lock it in place. Read more…

Luis thoughtfully planned for all the fellows to have Thanksgiving dinner together in Nebaj, and invited us all to bring a dish to share. I decided immediately to bring sweet potato casserole. It seemed that the fates were in support of this decision, because when I got home that day I found a huge bucket filled with camote, the Guatemalan version of a sweet potato. Josefina told me that a woman had been selling them in the market that morning, but was ready to go home, and so she sold about 5 lbs to Fina for 25 quetzales (8 Q to the dollar). She apparently had no plans for the camote, and was graciously willing to share them with me in my attempt at sweet potato casserole.

I had my mom email me my Gramma Kat’s recipe, and bought walnuts for the topping in Antigua, since there were no pecans to be found. Then I headed home where Fina helped me peel all 5 lbs of camote, despite my repeated suggestions that “Oh, that’s probably enough…” (I only needed 6 cups of cooked, mashed sweet potato, after all.) We put the camote on to cook, and I juiced 5 oranges to add to the mix. We bought 5 sticks of butter, a dozen eggs, and a big bag of sugar at the corner tienda while it cooked, and when I returned I mashed the camote in a grinder thing (excuse my ineloquence).

In two huge bowls of 12 cups of cooked sweet potato each (!!), we mixed the orange juice, two sticks of melted butter, 5 or 6 cups of sugar, and 6 beaten eggs. I did little taste tests along the way, and was pleased that it tasted pretty good! For the topping I chopped the walnuts and mixed them with about half a stick of melted butter, a handful of flour, and panella, which is granular molasses that comes in a block, I guess it’s more or less like brown sugar, which is what the recipe called for. I sprinkled the walnut/brown sugar mix on top and we put it in the oven to bake.

We had made more than twice as much as I needed, so I left half at home with my family and took half to Nebaj with me the next day. It turned out to be absolutely delicious, and I was so thrilled. I might even say incandescently happy, because it tasted just like home, and I had made it here, so far away, and had so much fun doing it. Plus my host family really liked it too (especially after I suggested that it was a lot tastier when it was hot, and when they tried it that way, they agreed.) Fina has been teaching me how to cook a lot of Guatemalan dishes, and I was really happy that I was able to show her how to make something that is so traditional for us. All her sisters and neighbors tried some, and they all said they had never had camote prepared that way before, but that they liked it. Fina says next time she has a lot of camote she’s not going to wait for Thanksgiving to make this. Success.

Yesterday morning when I was leaving the house, I said goodbye to my host-mom, “Mama Fina”, and gave her a kiss on the cheek– the traditional greeting and farewell here in Guatemala– when she stopped me and said, “I already love you a lot.” I, so pleased to hear that, tried to blubber out “Ohmigod, I feel the same way!” but before I could form a very coherent sentence (I managed some happy cooing sounds, funny how you revert to the communication style of a baby when you are met with an unexpected pronouncement in a still unfamiliar language) she continued, “but everyday when you walk out that door I tell myself ‘I don’t love her. I don’t even like her that much.’ because I don’t want to love you!

But then every evening around 5 I always find myself thinking, ‘Laura’s almost home!’ and I’m happy. And it’s only been 2 months. It’s going to be SO hard for me when you leave, after 5 MORE months.”

I was so touched, and I so wanted to explain to her what I realized was true for the first time, that when I leave in 5 more months, I’ll be leaving family. And when you leave family, you don’t let them go, you know? You call, you write, and you visit occasionally. Seven months is an incredibly long time to live with a family, and to live with a family who treats you so well, and gives you love and attention when you need it most, is such a gift. The first month I was here I was a mess of emotional highs and lows– spazzed out excited, confused beyond all measure, floundering in a puddle of utter homesickness– in those first few weeks I never expected that I could find my norm here at the stable and pleasing emotion of “content”. I’m now downright comfortable in what I at first deemed to be “uncomfortable” plastic chairs for watching TV, the shower is now just delectable when 2 months ago I spent much time in honest contemplation of how long I could REALLY go without showering because it was just too stressful an experience (I couldn’t tell you if the water has gotten hotter, or if I just don’t notice the breeze from outside anymore), I’ve found there’s nothing finer for an eating utensil than a freshly made tortilla, and yeah, this is a place that is really making its mark on me. I won’t be able to forget “Mama Fina” or let myself fall out of contact with her because she has already had a part in shaping me for the rest of my life, and in a very positive way.

Today marks the day I became a self-sufficient human Laundromat. And let me tell you, I have definitely been taking my washing machine & dryer for granted the past 18 years. There’s a whole process that involves pouring water on your clothes, then soap, then scrubbing, flipping, and turning the clothes in side out while you keep scrubbing until you can’t quite summon any real effort from the muscles in your upper body anymore. Oh, and then you rinse. By hand. And then you squeeze the water out by wringing out your clothes, and that’s especially difficult with jeans, I will witness.

After about 30 minutes of this, I happily reached the bottom of my laundry bag. (I should mention here that my laundry bag was tiny, and my host-mom Josefina does about 2 big buckets of laundry EVERY DAY.) And then all I had was the easy “cool-down” task of hanging it all on the line to dry. Wait, did I say cool-down? I meant the absolute hardest part. They don’t hang them up with clothes pins, but rather they pull apart the fibers of a nylon rope and stick the edges of cloth between them. It’s highly efficient, and super difficult. I would say that the fact that my fingers had been numbed from the cold wash-water was both a blessing and a curse. I had a lot of trouble separating the smaller fibers, but at the same time, I didn’t feel any rope burn when I pinched myself, which was often.

The upside is, however, that today is a sunny, windy day. And if I’m lucky, my clothes will be dry when I get home from working at Cambiando Vidas this evening, and if I’m really REALLY lucky, they might not even smell like fire smoke. Here’s my message in brief: do what I didn’t and appreciate your washing machine & dryer!

On Sunday, while my host parents Josefina and Omar went to the community cemetery to decorate the graves of their parents with the wreaths I helped them make, I went with the other fellows to a town called Santiago, famous for its huge kite festival.

Upon arriving, we walked about 2 miles down a street crammed with vendors of all types– some selling tissue paper kites in various sizes, designs and colors; others selling food of all kinds, grilling the meet right in front of you or displaying handmade candies in baskets; some very entrepreneurial types just posted signs that said “Se Alquila Sanitario- 7 Q” (Renting their bathrooms! Haha.)

At the end of the road, we filtered into the cemetery where hundreds of people were crawling like ants over the mausoleums and graves of their ancestors, graves that were covered in marigolds, here called “la flor de los muertos” or the flower of the dead. Though it felt sort of sacrilegious to me at first, I ultimately decided that when I die, I would much rather have a party thrown above me than to never be visited. And in truth, the “party” is in honor of the dead. The whole reason for flying the kites in the cemetery is to create a signal for the spirits of your ancestors so that they know where they should come down to visit you. Also during the day family members visit the graves of their ancestors and clean and decorate them, as a sign of love and respect. I actually love the idea, since in the States my perception of graveyards is dismal, sorrowful, and somber. In fact the more that I think about the spirit of the day, the more it seems to fit in with the culture of Guatemala, and the more fitting of a tribute to those you have lost it becomes.

Oh, and the kites themselves? Breathtaking. They are made out of tissue paper, fashioned in intricate, colorful patterns, depicting aspects of the life and history of Guatemala. There was not much wind while we were there, and so we didn’t see too many fly– but to see them in person and hear the crowd cheer when a new giant kite was hoisted up to be displayed was definitely worth the trip.