First of all: I just used the commercial break in the Bachelorette to take out my most urgent trash--an empty box of litter and an empty pizza box. Oy vey, when did I become a sitcom cliche??
Second of all: More travel journal.
If Antigua is reminiscent of a section of EPCOT (with just enough traffic and stray dogs to let you know you aren’t actually in Disneyworld), then Panajachel is like downtown Miami. It isn’t terribly large, but it bustles, especially during the day. When I was mentally composing this blog, I was going to say that I never really got a feel for Pana because I never felt like I stopped moving long enough to soak up the atmosphere of the city, but then I realized that that feel of movement WAS the feel of the city. We stayed off one of the main streets, lined with open air stores full of Mayan and tourist goods, and walking down it was an adventure. I don’t want to say the peddlers were relentless, because they would leave you alone after a few “no, gracias”es (with the exception of one enterprising boy who took my rejection personally and followed me for a while actually kicking the soles of my feet as I walked away), but they were certainly everywhere. I have a vivid mental memory of Cary and I as we wandered along the coast of the lovely Lake Atitlan, enjoying the view of the peaceful morning waters, having to keep moving every fifteen seconds to avoid the sellers stalking our movements. The streets were obstacle courses filled with chicken buses (converted American schoolbuses painted in outrageous colors, roaring to various unplanned stops to pick up people seeking passage up and down the steep mountain roads) and tuk tuks (little red three wheeled vehicles driven by boys who looked about thirteen years old and who shared the tendency to cover their windshields with “transparent” bumper stickers).
Pana has a lot to offer, if you can survive the trip within it. Ginny belongs to a nice gym there, and the shopping really is quite good. Cary and I found a very cute coffee shop run by Americans whose super nice owner made us chocolate lattes and sold Cary authentic Guatemalan coffee (it is difficult to find good coffee in Guatemala, since most of the quality beans are exported almost immediately). In that coffeeshop, not to be outdone by Cary’s Trojan encounter, I met an occupational therapist! She told me about how she and her husband had always done missionary work, and she had moved down here permanently hoping to start a clinic offering occupational therapy but had trouble since no one understood what sort of service that was. Hmph. So much for an international field.
Our hotel was very nice. We knew it was going to be a good place since when we walked in, we were greeted first by three horse-sized, friendly German shepherds, and then, a small puffball. She was definitely one of the cutest puppies I’ve ever seen.
Side note: We later found out the puppy had been found by the owner in a plastic bag on the street. Someone had put her in a box and then in a bag, and left her to suffocate. Now, I am not PETA’s biggest card-carrying member, but let me say how awful that is to, morally speaking. I know that if you do not have enough food to feed yourself or your family, taking care of a dog would not be an option. But what a way to solve the problem?? There are hundreds of street dogs in Guatemala, you could simply turn the dog loose to join their ranks. True, you might be condemning her to eventual death, but still, it seems to give her better odds. Or, if you do feel you simply must be the person to directly end her life, you could do something quick and marginally more merciful. The idea of leaving your puppy to slowly suffocate is just atrocious.
But anyway.
Ginny met us around lunchtime and it was all I could do to not throw my arms around her and say, “never leave us again!!!!” She took us to a café and introduced us to liquados, Guatemalan smoothies made with fruit and either milk, water, or yoghurt. Yum yum yum. As we talked about our plan for the rest of the day (she is the lone Savage who can do without any sort of plan in her day to day life—I’m really more of a “pla” girl, whereas Cary is the sort to have Plan A, B, and C, but Ginny is the easygoing one. Knowing us, tho, she attempted to plan a bit more than I think is her norm), we decided we’d honor her coworkers’ tradition and come cook dinner for them that night up the mountain in Solola.
The rest of the afternoon, then, was spent shopping (another Savage girl favorite). Cary managed to find a purse—after stopping in every little stall, which brought to mind my college experiences following my favorite fashionista Petra around department stores—I miss you, P!!!—and we got to watch Ginny bargain. She is the master of the “run a hand casually through my hair,” mutter, “No too much” (in Spanish of course), and turn away, only to be reluctantly turned around by the new, lowered price. After we did that, we went food shopping. This included an ‘”American” supermarket complete with such staples as funfetti cake mix, a giant Mayan market under a corrugated tin roof, and another grocery store that struck the balance between the two, and gathered our supplies. Hauling it all, we ran our way to catch a chicken bus.
I’ve mentioned the chicken bus, but I think it will be impossible to convey the sensation of riding one up the mountains in words. I found it best to imagine I was on a 3D simulator ride (does anyone remember Questor at Busch Gardens? Or the Star Wars ride at Disneyworld?). You cram on a schoolbus bench with tourists and natives alike, cling like hell to the metal bar in front of you and your bag on your lap, attempt to ignore the groaning and grinding of the gears and the moaning of your own stomach as you whirl around the mountain, pray your driver is the kind of genius who can multi task between his cell phone and the constant stopping/starting to pick up/drop off passengers, and try to enjoy the amazing views to the lake that come at every hairpin turn around the narrow road. It is thrilling and terrifying at the same time, and yet, to so many people, it’s their daily commute—it’s the equivalent of getting on the T or driving the Beltway—which to be fair, is pretty terrifying in its own right, and a heck of a lot less scenic to boot.
We arrived safely, which, SPOILER ALERT, we would do with all of our many somewhat alarming modes of our transportation, and went into Ginny’s house. It is a very pretty building, spread over several levels connected by a red tile and iron staircase. We met most of her coworkers/roommates, including her cat Oliver, who is a real lovebug, and headed to the kitchen to start cooking.
I’m not sure I’ve explained what Ginny is doing. She is working for a group called Manna. They send teams of people into disadvantaged communities to attempt to build comprehensive, sustainable programs that better the lives of the inhabitants. Unlike the Peace Corps, the participants select their own programs to implement based on their evaluation of the community. Ginny’s group, which is Manna’s pilot program in Guatemala, does a lot, including teaching English at a local school. It’s a one year commitment for all but one of their leaders, and almost all of her coworkers graduated from Vanderbilt with her last May.
It is was both refreshing and surprising to me how clearly you could tell her coworkers are still college-age kids. There is always this image of “service” as somber, ageing work; if you spend your time confronting hardship and deprivation, and not turning away, but instead facing it and trying to change it, it implies maturity and gravity. And the Manna people are mature. They have seen a lot more of the world and how hard it can be than many of their peers, and in return have offered much more of themselves than many people twice their age. Despite this, though, they have held on to their youth. Although Ginny is of course a saint, ;), the stories she tells of the young American expatriate world play out a bit like Gossip Girl plotlines. They party, they swap love interests, they (maybe unconsciously) carry on the spirit and joie de vive of Vanderbilt social life. It’s really endearing, if I can say that without being TOO patronizing. I really liked and admired the Manna peeps, and at the same time they made me feel really old and boooooring.
It is also refreshing to see how little kids are the same everywhere. We passed by a school, and sure enough, there was one little eight-year-old idiot trying to scale the soccer post. Ginny showed us videos of their students performing for the Mother’s Day tribute, and the goofiness of the fourth grader trying to put on a show is universal. Love it!
Anyway, Solola has water restrictions, and at a certain point during the day, Manna’s house runs out of water. They buy extra water to compensate, but that still means no water comes out of the faucets. No toilets to flush, no sinks to run—makes cooking a bit of a mental challenge. And makes a bona fide shower addict like myself a little nervous. To add to the irony, it started raining, as if to say, “naaah naaah, no water running for you!!”
Because of the rain, we took a taxi cab back down to Pana. Our hotel had a tin roof, and as we attempted to sleep, I smiled as I heard the rain pattering above. One of my strongest memories of summer camp is lying in my top bunk, letting the sound of the rain thumping the roof and breaking the afternoon hit carry me through the enforced hour rest. So at first it was so calming and peaceful, hearing that same sound. Plus, the rain drowned out the persistent drip of the water tower in the yard next door. And then the clouds opened, and the gentle tinkling turned into a full-on roar. My rainy lullaby turned into feeling like a train was rolling over our heads. I had to giggle. So much for rainy romance.
Eventually, the rain stopped, and we managed to sleep. And the next morning we woke up and went to San Pedro.
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