Las Rodas

“Hola Tom (prounounced Tome),” a voice on the other end of the phone said, “Soysergio.” “Cómo?” I responded, confused as usual. “Soy Sergio,” he repeated, It’s me, Sergio. “Ahhh, ¿cómo estás?” I asked, hoping I’d understand a bit better. I think he said he was on his way with his family to pick me up. I think they said we were going to have a picnic at Las Fuentes Gorginas – natural hot baths outside of Xela. I think he said they were going to be 15 or 20 minutes late, but with phone Spanish I’m never one hundred percent sure of exactly what is being said.

I met Sergio and his family two weeks prior and my relationship to him is quite complicated, so bear with me. He is the husband of the sister of the husband of a friend of a friend of my mother. Got it? About a month before I left for Xela, I met Donna and Alex, the aforementioned friend of a friend and her husband. Alex had migrated to the US in 1989 with some of his siblings when he was 19 years old. It just so happened that Alex grew up in Salcajá – a small city twenty minutes away from Xela – and that his mother, brother, and sister still lived there. I remember sitting in his kitchen in Colonia, dumbfounded as he told me his mother was willing to let me – essentially a complete stranger – stay in her place for as long as I wanted. “Whatever you need,” he told me as his young son gleefully ran up and down the stairs with various toy weapons, “you tell them and they will help you, I promise.”

I could’ve understood him telling me, “If you have an emergency, they will be there to help you,” or even “They would love to meet you for a cup of coffee,” but that they were opening up their home to a complete stranger with open arms was just beyond my comprehension. Nevertheless, I found myself waiting in my room with a bag packed to spend the night with them after a day at the hot springs.

My first encounter with them happened two weeks prior, when my Spanish was still in shoddy shape. I remember waiting for them in the rainy Parque Calvario, hoping that I heard correctly on the phone. All I got out of the conversation was “manaña” tomorrow, “las tres” at three, and “Parque Calvario” the Calvary Park, but it proved to be enough. At a quarter past the hour – or right on time according to the Guatemalan clock – they pulled up and hurried me into the car.

In the car, I didn’t understand much, but they were patient and laughed the entire way through the potentially awkward conversation. The words “generous” and “warm” cannot begin to describe this family. In Salcajá, they got me a private tour of the oldest church in Latin America – basically a box of a room with creepy dolls and too much gold on the altar. They took me to Marta’s house – Alex’s mom – and I couldn’t have received a better tour if I were a prospective buyer. Marta was going to visit family in the US for five months, but, in the mean time, I could have the house to myself if I so desired. Sergio and Lulu – Alex’s sister – brought me to their place, gave me cookies and milk, let me call the US, let me use the internet, and even gave me not one, but two cell phones that I could use while I was in Guatemala. All this and I could barely even converse with them. I had no idea what to make of it, but I thought it better just to be grateful and not question it too much.

Before I left that day we made plans to go to the Fuentes Gorginas in two weeks, and I could hardly believe that they were actually there, loading my backpack into the trunk along with a feast waiting to be cooked. They let me sit in the front with Sergio while the three ladies – Lulu, her daughter Lisa, her ten-year-old niece, and her expecting daughter-in-law whose name I still don’t know – squeezed in the back. The first time we were together, Sergio resorted to mere words to talk to me: “Está… calle,” he would say to me, pointing to the street. I was thrilled this time to find that we could now communicate in full sentences. In fact, I understood the majority of what was being said.

Miles outside of Xela, we climbed a narrow mountain road in our car, weaving through hillside farm fields and hugging the sulfur and egg-smelling cliffs. It was cloudy, but even the faint outlines of the not-too-distant mountains were still breathtaking. We approached the front gate, and without hesitation Sergio paid for all of us in the car. I had intended to pay, but I didn’t even get the chance. This was the first of many overly generous acts on the day.

We walked up the verdant paths lined with plants straight out of Jurassic Park on one side and small picnic/bungalow areas on the opposite one, until we reached the hot baths. I stripped down to my bathing suit and slowly submerged myself into the hot, hot water. The Rodas family quickly befriend a group of traveling Cuban doctors, and I floated on the outside of the conversation trying – but failing – to understand much of what was going on. The water felt great, but only for so long. Lisa and Lulu had a good laugh at how pink my feet were. Come to think of it, they had a good laugh at most things I said/did. Eventually Gilberto – Alex’s party loving brother – came with his wife and also with a fleece jacket for me to borrow. In the car I told them I had lost my jacket the night before and, within the minute, Lulu was on the phone with Gilberto asking him to bring me a sweater.

Eventually the rain came, and that was our cue to start the picnic. Like Andy commented my first week here, “When it rains here these Guatemalans don’t pack up and go home… they keep the party going.” And so we did. We crowded under a tiny and porous umbrella with a picnic basket filled with chips, tortillas, frijoles, salsa, guacamole, and – thankfully – a 1L bottle of gold tequila from Mexico. They asked me if I wanted a shot and I had to respond “¿Cómo no?” Why not? That shot turned into six or seven, and before long you couldn’t get me to stop speaking Spanish. We dined on delicious carne asada, more beans, guacamole, salad, tamales, and tortillas galore.

Gilberto, Sergio, Reginaldo – the father-in-law of Gilberto – and I walked up to the poolside bar and Gilberto treated me to a Brazo – the stout beer brewed by Gallo, the Guatemalan equivalent of Coors. We sat around BSing, and for once I didn’t feel so out of place. In typical machismo style they eyed up some gringa chica in the pool and egged me on to go join her. Sergio told us a story of his friend who snuck into the US to take a trip to Chicago. He couldn’t speak English and didn’t have ID, but somehow he made his way onto a plane from LA to Chicago. During the flight, the attendant asked him if he wanted chicken or beef. Sergio’s buddy couldn’t speak, so he did the next best thing. He flapped his arms and Brkcaaaaaawwww-ed like a chicken. Sergio must have told this story to at least four people today and he laughed harder and harder each time. Sitting there with my beer in hand, tequila in my belly, and quality company surrounding me, I couldn’t help but smile and laugh along.

We packed up shortly thereafter and in the car, as the Latin love ballads flowed from the speakers, I could not stay awake. I awoke when we pulled up to their house. I sat in the kitchen with Lulu and she had a cup of coffee waiting for me. I intended to read, but we just started talking for a bit. Sergio, waking up from a mini-nap, joined. Then their daughter Lisa. Then their son and his pregnant wife. We all talked about everything – family, life in the States, what I’m doing in Xela. The power went out, but the conversation continued. I joked about my dislike for boiled plantains and talked about how much I missed pancakes. Before I knew what happened, Lulu had a batch mixed and a pan on the stove waiting to cook some flapjacks. I felt bad when I realized she had only prepared them for me, but the syrupy buttermilk flavor in my mouth sent me soaring back to life in the US.

At 9, they took me to my house for the night. The power was out all over the city – all over Guatemala, it turns out – and we navigated the house with flashlights. They showed me to my bedroom and lit a candle for me by my bedside. I think they told me to come by in the morning when I woke up, but my mind was spent and my comprehension skills were dwindling.

As soon as they left, I dove into my queen-sized bed and sprawled out. As I laid there, more comfortable than I'd been in a month, I couldn't help but wonder why these people were being so unbelievably generous to me. I played through a bunch of scenarios in my head. I imagined myself, a good seventy-five pounds heavier, walking into their kitchen and saying "Mmmmmmm... something smells good in here." They would all giggle and speak to each other in a rapid indecipherable Spanish with forks and knives in hand. They would smile anxiously, their lips watering as they watched me sit. "So, what's for dinner?" I would ask innocently, completely unaware of the horrible fate I had just blindly walked myself into. "You are!" they'd shout before they pounced and feasted on some American meat.

Na... They don't seem like the cannibal-type, I told myself, laughing at how twisted my mind can get sometimes. Lying in the candlelight, I started having some more legit fears. I started thinking about how much of the language I didn't know. What if there's some cultural norm of courtesy to visitors that I don't know about? What if I'm unintentionally taking advantage of their good will to the max? After all I was ok with accepting some extreme generosity in a foreign land; but becoming a leech was a completely different story.

Na... I don't think I'm being rude. After all, they've insisted on most things when I've tried to decline, and the barbecue was their idea. There's got to be something though. Maybe they are just trying to butter me up to ask me for a big favor in return... like smuggling a relative or drugs into the US or something. After all, Sergio did ask me to help me write a letter in English to American cotton distrubuters in North Carolina and to help with a phone call.

Na, I thought again, that can't be it. Firstly, they have plenty of family legally in the states and don't have a problem getting there. Secondly, I chuckled to myself, they don't seem like the drug pedaling types. As far as the letter goes, I'd do that for a friend of a friend with no thought of asking for something in return.

Then it clicked. If I could do something for someone else just for the sake of being nice, why couldn't someone do the same for me? Maybe - just maybe - the Rodas family doesn't need to have some ulterior motive underlying and tainting their generosity. Why can't they just be very blessed people believe in sharing their good blessings with those around them. Maybe - just maybe - people can be good just for the sake of being good.