My week at Santa Anita

So like I said two posts ago, I spent last week volunteering and living at the Santa Anita Finca, the coffee plantation I visited in mid-October. Back then, I knew that I wanted to come back but I wasn’t sure if I’d have the time. In the previous weeks in Xela, I found myself growing antsy and dissatisfied with the way things were going in Xela: volunteering at the school was frustrating and felt like neither the kids nor I were getting much out of the classes, there wasn’t much use for me on the construction site with the school drawing closer and closer to being finished, and I wasn’t speaking nearly as much Spanish as I wanted to. So I decided to pack up my things and escape the cold mountain air of Xela and get a change of scenery.

Coffee Talk with Doña Maria

My friend Eleni joined me at Santa Anita for a few days in her last week in Xela. The pickup dropped us off at the farm around 11am, and we wandered through one of the grass “streets” in the community to find Gloria, the woman in charge of the ecotourism project. When we couldn’t find her, Eleni and I decided to stop by the house of Maria, the woman that cooked and ate with us during our visit back in October.

We walked off the grassy road and passed by the cinderblock walls of her house, ducking under the hanging flowery branches. Chickens scurried about on the ground, clucking as they stepped out of our way. We found her in her “kitchen” in the backyard. She was standing over the wood-fire stove – where we always found her – surrounded by maize tortilla mix, a stack of dishes, baskets, and bags, and the food that would be our lunch.

She saw us and broke out into her witchy cackle, a laugh that would be creep out of context but always felt real coming from her. She walked around the concrete table and greeted us with a lively “Buenas dias!” She said she remembered us, but neither Eleni nor I completely believed her. Lunch would be at one o’clock, and she told us to come back then.

After spending an hour on our hands and knees weeding in the coffee nursery, it was time for lunch. We walked down to her house and passed through the doorless, concrete threshold into her kitchen. The room was spacious, but with the barred and glassless window, the sparsely decorated cinderblock walls, and the single hanging light bulb, it felt more like a prison cell than a house. There were two other rooms: a storage room and a bedroom. The roof didn’t meet the walls, but I guess it was sufficient protection from the elements. Eleni and I pulled out our white plastic chairs while Maria finished carrying in our bowls of soup – a mix of broth, veggies, and a huge chunk of beef – rice, and, of course, a stack of tortillas wrapped in a woven napkin.

Almost every one of the nine conversations we shared followed the same progression. We’d sit down and Maria would be all smiles. She’d laugh at almost every little thing that was said. Then something would come up – be it the war, her unfaithful husband, crime in Guatemala, problems at the finca (plantation), etc. Her face would change. Her smiles would descend. The laughs would cease. Her gaze would turn inward as she lost herself in the memories of events I can’t possibly imagine. And she would always whisper, “Asi es la vida en Guatemala.” Such is life in Guatemala.

It would take too long to describe every conversation we had, so I’ve made this bulleted list to sum up the most memorable points.

- Many people who joined the guerrillas in the civil war here were not welcomed back into their homes for fear of the national army. Maria told us of one woman in the community who’s mother told her, “you’re not my daughter anymore.” So it went for many.

- We talked about the recent lynching of a gang member by the public in Panajachel. “The people are getting tired,” she explained, “tired of the corruption in the police force, and tired of them not working to protect the people.” Bus drivers are killed in extortion rings, women – young and old – are sexually assaulted, and people are mugged and even killed for as little as 50Q and a cell phone. In a few cities, vigilante crowds are taking the law into their own hands.

- Her first husband, a fellow fighter in the war, was abducted by the army and never seen or heard from again. Her second husband is currently the president of Santa Anita. We only saw brief glimpses of him, however, as he came and went to drop off and pick up his bag. He has a second woman whom he lives with outside of the Santa Anita community. Maria lives by herself.

- She grew up on a finca, but not one like Santa Anita. There was a patron there and, like most patrons, he didn’t care much for his workers and their families. She said the ceiling of their one room house was old and worn and the wood walls were falling apart. Now, she says, she is so grateful to have a house like the one she has now. Perspective is an amazing thing.

- She doesn’t believe in immigration. Life is tough in Guatemala, but she knows that it is no easier in the States for an immigrant. She’d prefer to be in her home country.

- She proudly told us she was the first woman to join the guerrilla forces in the conflict. In contrast to the machismo culture that pervades Latin America, in the mountains in the army camp, everyone was equal. Men and women both cooked and did the laundry. Now that the war is over, men have reverted back to their old ways. They say that in the war it was out of necessity that they did “womanly” things, but now things can be restored to their rightful order.

- We talked of the 15 years she spent in Mexico in exile. She could not return to Guatemala because she feared for her life and the lives of her family members. Instead, she made a new life for herself in Chiapas selling chickens.

- She told me she lived on 15Q a day, just about $2.

- Through it all, she always reassured me that she was happy to be living where she was, being able to meet travelers and share her story, and spending her time cooking. I’m not sure if I completely believe her.

¡Cosechemos! Picking Coffee

After a long morning of picking weeds on Tuesday, Eleni and I were able to help out two families on Wednesday as they harvested their coffee. After cooking ourselves some beans, tortillas and chowing down on some banana bread made by the ladies of the plantation, the families of Teresa and Angelina handed us our baskets and led us our work site for the day.

The way Santa Anita works is that there are thirty-two families living on the plantation. Each family is given thirty cuerdas – parcels of land - on which they are required to grow and harvest coffee and bananas. The harvest season is from late September until, at the latest, early January. Once the coffee is harvested, the families sort out ripe, red, high quality beans from the less mature yellow or green ones. The coffee is thrown into water, and whatever does not float is taken to be deseeded. The seeds are spread out over concrete patios to dry in the sun for four or five days. Afterwards, they are sorted once again before being toasted. After that, they are good to drink. For all this work in a good year, a family will earn 8000Q or about $1,000.

We wandered away from the volunteer house into the heart of the coffee farm, our baskets secured around our waist. The paths were lined with tall trees shading the coffee, banana trees dangling their bundles, and, of course, the coffee bushes. We finally reached the cuerda, but I still have no idea how they distinguish between each one. It was time to work.

It was surprisingly quiet. There was the constant chirping, squawking, and screeching of birds that must’ve been used for sound effects in Jurassic Park. Leaves rustled as we made our own paths from plant to plant. And there was also the constant shaking of the bushes as the colorful beans were plucked branch by branch. Other than that, there was not much else. It was relaxing, tranquil, and surprisingly unstressful. Or so I thought.

One of Teresa’s sons suddenly ran from the parcel and out onto the path screaming frantically and losing half the beans from his basket. His mother chased after him, to see if he was ok, as did the rest of us moments later. We found the little guy crying. Apparently, he brushed against a wasps’ nest and upset the nasty little insects. They stung him about eleven times, and the marks were swelling up on his face, behind his ears, his neck, and his hands. He ended up being ok and went back to working after a few minutes. Afterwards, it was difficult to work without being all too conscious of the constant buzzing overhead.

The rest of Wednesday’s coffee picking was relatively uneventful, though I did get to pick bananas but there’s a different section on that one. On Friday, I joined a different family to work their land. Working on the flat land it seemed like it’d be a relatively uneventful morning, especially considering some of the hills we had to pass. And it was uneventful, aside from one little incident.

I was plucking coffee beans by the main path when I noticed a little sting in my leg. Then I noticed a lot of little stings in my leg. I looked down and my foot and pant leg were covered with dozens of little red ants. I lifted up my leg and there about half that amount crawling on my bare leg. I freak out, jumped off the path, and started swatting myself maniacally. A couple of the pinches were getting higher and higher, but I somehow managed to get rid of every single ant before anything more sensitive than my inner thigh was bit.

Augustina, the woman I was helping, saw me and asked if I got bit. I gave an embarrassed nod and noticed that she was wearing sandals. Then I noticed her son, Carlos, was wearing them too. I couldn’t imagine walking through the heavy brush on the ground, not knowing what was crawling beneath, with essentially bare feet and exposed legs. I wondered if they did it by choice, but my gut reaction was no.

Much more green coffee (unripe) than red coffee (ripe) awaited us that day, and the trees were already pretty sparsely populated to begin with. We ended up with two heavy sacks, each weighing well over 50 lbs . Now I don’t know if I’ve described how Guatemalans carry heavy loads before but it’s quite the sight. The take a rope, fasten it into a belt, let the cargo rest on one side of it, and the strap the other side around their forehead while they carry the load on their backs. Augustina and her son loaded up this way and began our ten minute walk down and up narrow dirt paths back to their house.

Now I don’t know if it was because I wanted to help Augustina, or if I just wanted to experience what it was like. It could have even been a macho-let’s-see-if-I-can-do-this kind of thing. Whatever the case, when Augustina and 13 year old Carlos sat down to rest, I told Augustina to relax and that I would take it the rest of the way. So I sat down in front of the load, she helped me get the belt around the top of my head, and then I was suddenly on my feet carrying a sack of coffee with my face. It didn’t tire me like I thought it would; I expected it to leave me winded and put more strain on my back and legs. Instead, I felt it all in my neck and upper spine. No wonder why Guatemalans are so short. Nevertheless, Carlos and I just put our heads down, only able to see the next couple steps in front of us and trudged forward.

We dumped the bags on a small tarp in front of their house and began separating the good from the bad. Tossing the beans into their respective baskets, I started asking Carlos some basic questions: how old he was, if he liked coffee, and what he wanted to be when he grew up. He told me he wanted to be a doctor. I made some jokes about me being sick and asking what I should do, but this impressed me deep down. To think that the families here went from fighting for better treatment from the government, to forming their own coffee community that they owned together, and then to have kids that have dreams that are achievable. At times I worried for the people of Santa Anita – worried that they wouldn’t make enough money, and that people would give up on the vision as the memory of armed struggle grew more and more distant – but not on Friday. It seemed like things here, as slow as they might seem, are going just fine.

Dodging Banana Trees

After all the coffee had been picked for the day on Wednesday, Angelina’s 13 year old son, Hector, asked me if I wanted to help him cut down bananas. I responded with an emphatic “Sí.” In October, I was really curious as to how they cut them down. Did they use a ladder? Did they climb the

m? What’d they do? My curiosity only grew stronger as I saw Hector pick up a ten ft bamboo pole and hack the end of it into a spear with his machete.

I followed him and his younger neighbors down the steep hills behind where we were picking coffee. We surveyed the banana trees spread about until we found one ripe enough to cut. He asked me if I wanted to try, and I said ok. He handed me the bamboo spear and pointed to the tree. I still don’t know exactly what he said, but I’m assuming it was something like “Stab it.” After half a minute of spastically prodding and scraping the fibrous plant, Hector decided to show me how it was done. Neither of us could get strength from our legs standing sideways on the hill to put enough force behind our stabs. Hector gave up, switched the pole for his machete, and with three whacks of the trunk the 15 ft tall plant split in two and our prize came crashing down.

After moving the bananas to the path, the boys ran down the hills, weaving back and forth in their sandals, as I struggled not to fall on my ass in my proper hiking boots. We found our next victim on flat ground. It was much easier to put some leverage behind the thrusts, but cutting into a banana tree with bamboo is a very monotonous, draining process. Hector got it going, but he let me finish the job. After a minute of stabbing, the tree started to wobble. Hector pointed to the side and, after two more blows to Hector’s target, it came down, quickly at first, but then catching itself on its own hinge and dangling the banana bundle safely within reach of Hector’s machete.

We did this four more times.

As the boys ran playfully from tree to tree, climbing hills, hauling bananas, and so on, I forgot that there was actual danger in this. On the last tree, the bundle came down hanging slightly out of reach of the much shorter Hector. I told him, with unmerited confidence, to give me the machete. I grabbed hold of the phallic end of the bundle and hacked the other side off the tree. The weight of the bananas surprised me and with almost no footing to support me I dropped it a few feet down the hill. I eagerly chased it under the slaughtered tree. Then I heard cracking and something in me realized, without thinking, that all the cracking should have been done. Luckily I was facing to the left because the crashing 9 foot trunk of the tree missed my back by inches. My girlfriend’s pre-departure warning echoed in my head: “You’re not invincible, Tom.” Suddenly, picking bananas wasn’t so fun.

Luckily, we were done for the day. The kids each loaded bundles onto their backs, but thinking I was stronger than I was, I decided to take two in my hands. Mistake. While the boys steadily made their way up hill back to their house, I had to stop at least three times to catch my breath. I made it in the end, and Hector treated me to a plastic bag of chocolate-flavored ice.

Random Observations

So I still have a lot more things to say about this week, but this post is already ridiculously long and instead I'm just going to finish it with some quick observations and thoughts from the week.

- The fast-talking eighteen year old Mauricio had been messaging me on G-mail for months asking when we'd come back. Our first time there, he enthusiastically told us about his plans to go to med school after he finished high school. When I saw him this time, I noticed his hands were blue from playing with blue Playdough. He told me his teacher had told him that it would help his writing and that he had been massaging it in his hands since that morning (it was about 4pm when we had this conversation). Once again, I was reminded of all the things I had access to as a kid and never though twice about how privileged I was. And yes, it is a privilege to have access to crayons and Playdough on a regular basis.

- On Thursday, I joined some of the community members asthey headed to another finca a couple hours away. The point of the trip was to start an inter-community relationship of support. We listened to each of the finca's stories - how they became independent of their patrons, where they're at now, their problems - and also to methods of increasing coffee production in a sustainable way. It was nice to see that competition could be coupled with cooperation.

Christmas Shopping in Chichicastenango

Last weekend, a few friends from El Nahual and I hopped on a chicken bus to head to the famed Guatemalan market in Chichicastenango. On most days of this week, Chichi (as the Guatemalans call it) isn’t that impressive of a site; there’s the colorful cemetery, the quaint and uneven cobble-stone streets, and a decent-enough looking church in town, but definitely nothing to write home about. Every Thursday and Sunday, however, the town transforms into a bustling marketplace as tourists, Guatemalan shoppers, and vendors alike flood into town. The normally passable roads are transformed into aisles with vendors offering carved wooden masks, woven clothing, blankets, and bags. Children – some shining shoes, some selling cheaply sown animals and magnets – circulate the crowds looking for a sympathetic foreigner who will buy their product, and maybe even an ice cream as a tip. In the center of the market, women shout at each other in the throaty Mayan language Mam as they sweat over pots and pans of boiling veggies and fried chicken. It’s hectic. It’s frantic. But before you know it, you’ve got a bag full of souvenirs and gifts (or maybe even a ridiculous cowboy hat on your head), the vendors are packing up their wooden stands, and you’re wedged into place on an overcrowded chicken bus heading away from town.

Persistency Pays

We got to Chichi early on Saturday afternoon, giving ourselves enough time to find a place to spend the night, grab a bite to eat, and wander through the town before it transformed on Sunday. We found the Hotel Salvador, a hostel with a spacious, verdant courtyard, five foot tall doorways, and rooms consisting of four concrete walls, three beds, and a single hanging light bulb. After decompressing from the two-plus hour chicken bus ride, we went out into town for a quick lunch and, afterwards, we gave ourselves a little tour of the city.

In the market center many vendors had already set up shop by mid-afternoon, probably hoping to catch early birds like us and lure us into a little premature purchasing. I got suckered into it and bought a little gift for my great-grandma. I should’ve known better. I didn’t realize that, competing with the vendor, there was a group of girls with their own products – all exactly the same as were on display, of course.

They started pleading with me. “Amigo mio,” my friend, they kept calling me, “why don’t you buy a gift for your mom? Or for you girlfriend?” I told them I had already bought it, but they wouldn’t give up. We walked away from the city center. They walked alongside us. We walked into the cemetery. They followed right along.

Thinking they were sisters, and therefore sharing the profits, I bought a little magnet. Rather than satisfy them, it only seemed to foment the thirst for foreign dollars. It started with two of them; suddenly, there were seven. They swarmed our group with their stuffed animals, but we didn’t give in. I started talking to one. Her name was Lucia. She was eleven years old and she told me her parents sent her by bus for two-hours to sell the crafts they made in their homes. She had all the lines and a quick wit to match it. She knew how to work the guilt buttons, but I had decided I wouldn’t give in that day anymore.

The next day, as our shopping was coming to a close, I heard a little voice say “Hola Tomas.” I looked to my left, and there was little Lucia, with the same olds gifts for sale. Surprised she remembered my name, I started talking to her. Her and her friend starting their same old rap, but this time they started calling me “Tomasa Francisca,” the feminized version of my name in Spanish. They clung to me like those fish that swim alongside sharks, never failing to match my stride. I felt bad. I wanted to give them something, but I really didn’t want to buy one of those damn gifts. I told them I’d buy them a drink. They wanted smoothies. I couldn’t say no. These girls were operators, I tell you. They knew the game, and they knew it well. The woman making the banana-strawberry smoothies, gave me a look of playful pity because she knew exactly what had happened. The two girls seemed genuinely happy with their drinks and they thanked me. It just goes to show, persistency pays.

Shaman in the Cemetery

With not much else to do on Saturday afternoon, we decided to pay a visit to the cemetery in town. The guidebooks said that it was dangerous to enter – even with a large group in the day – but the pastel-colored towering tombs appeared benign enough from the street. I was pleased to see that the graveyard wasn’t stratified like the one in Xela; the plain graves of the poor rested alongside monumental tombs of the rich.

Not too far in, I noticed a pile of what looked like burning garbage. That would’ve been no surprise to me. What was interesting, however, was the placement. It was burning next to an altar in front of a locked tiny chapel. On the stone altar, there were three candles burning with white and orange flower petals scattered about. Next to all of this, there was a man dressed in slacks and a Lacoste polo shirt packing up his bag. He looked very clean-cut and put-together, but not overly so.

Feeling more courageous and curious than me, Rachel made the first move and asked him what he was doing. The man began explaining deliberately, but not slowly, in a calm clear tone that he was performing a spiritual rite. He continued, saying that different colored candles, various types of flowers, and even types of food like chocolate and honey were all used for different types of prayers. Some were used for prayers of thanks, others for forgiveness, and others for requests. He didn’t go into much detail about which was used with what. He was a Mayan shaman, and this cemetery was one of three in the country where they were legally allowed to perform such offerings. Sometimes with these prayers, the people would really feel the moment and become almost entranced.

He gave Rachel a flower petal to smell from the altar and she reacted with a “Que rico!” For a second, I thought she was full of shit, but then I smelled the tiny orange petal and all I can say is “Que rico!” It was so sweet yet potent.

It made me start thinking about rituals and tradition and prayers. To be honest, my gut reaction to it all beforehand would’ve been to say it’s all silly and nonsensical. But smelling that flower made me think about it differently. There’s something powerful about connecting your emotions and thoughts with concrete action – it somehow makes them more real and more focused. For example, you can say that you’re thankful for something, but taking the time to go to the altar with candles and the appropriate candles, flowers, etc and then stimulating the senses with the colors and scents transforms the sentiment into a memorable moment. And I believe that it’s these moments that have the potential to change the way we live, or rather make us realize our potential to change the way we live.

Shoe Shines and Ice Cream

The ice cream shop looked like any shop you’d go to in the states, the various flavors on display and being refrigerated under a shoulder-height glass counter. My salsa buddy Rachel offered to treat me to some cookie-dough ice cream, served in a waffle cone double-dipped in chocolate covered with nuts; I couldn’t say no. As we walked outside, the speakers were pumping some generic American rap song I had never heard before. Standing in the street, cone in hand, speaking in English with friends, it was easy for a moment to forget that I was thousands of miles away from home.

The reality of where I was hit me hard when I was approached by a little boy, shorter than my waist, toting a shoe shine box and brush that was half his size. He looked up at me and made his request directly as he murmured, “Helado.” Ice cream. He couldn’t have been older than five. Where were his parents? Were they watching? I wondered to myself. Usually, I don’t like giving money to kids because their parents are the ones behind their begging, but ice cream wouldn’t hurt… right?

We walked inside the shop, and he was too short to peer over the glass. I gave him a lift and he pointed silently to some vanilla flavor with yellow stripes. The server gave me a pleased smile as she grabbed his cone and filled it. I paid the few Quetzals and gave my little friend his cone. He took it in his dirty little blackened hands, picked up his box as if he were a grown man grabbing his brief case, and strode off down the street alone. No “Gracias,” no parents – just his tiny little frame, disappearing into the crowd as he turned the corner.

The next day, Rachel and I separated from the group on one street. After talking to one vendor, I turned around and I had lost her in the dozens of faces walking by. I walked up a bit, and found her getting her new leather boots shined by another “lustador” (what they call the shoe shiners). If it were anyone else, I probably would’ve thought badly of the situation, but I knew Rachel and knew that she was doing this 1) to help the little guy get some money and 2) to strike up a conversation with him and see what his life was like. I was glad to see our nine-year-old friend smiling as he told us about school, playing football, and his one-year career as a shoe shiner. While he worked diligently, I snuck off and forced my way through the crow to buy him a little orange ice pop. I sat back down next to them, and as soon as I did, we were swarmed with several other kids toting bags of gimmicky gifts and looking to cash in on the generous gringos. Our little friend (I can’t believe I forgot his name) took the ice pop with pride, but it made me realize that no matter how many kids you buy ice cream for, there will always be twice as many left empty-handed.

Gone for the Week

Hey everyone... I just wanted to say that I went back to the Santa Anita Finca for the week and there isn't really internet here. Expect a couple long posts about my weekend in Chichicastenango - the biggest market in Guatemala - and a week of coffee picking and war stories Monday the 14th.

- Tom

Construction Stories

Are Guatemalans Smarter than Americans?

I was walking down the cobblestone streets of Antigua with an acquaintance, a woman named Christine, and her friend when Christine said, “You know, I bet the average Guatemalan is smarter than the average American. Physically speaking.” What she meant was that because the roads and sidewalks were always uneven and unpredictable and because a lot of Guatemalans will do things like share a single bicycle between two, three, or four people, Guatemalans have a better awareness of their bodies and balance.

Yesterday, I worked at the new school construction site with Juan Pedro and Enrique, two teachers at the school who were hired to help out with the building. They climbed up 9-10 ft tall walls of cinderblock like Jackie Chan and stood on top of them, either casually stepping around the protruding metal rods as they navigated the perimeter, tossing tools back and forth across the unfinished room, or even pelting each other with rocks. If I were up there, I would have fallen onto the wood scraps and chip bags covering the dirt floor. It made me think about how my dad would never let me use the lawnmower growing up because he was scared I’d slip under and lose a foot… or something like that. Now I just feel ridiculously unhandy. Maybe protecting kids so much isn’t such a good thing after all.

I’ve Become a Migrant Worker

I’ve gone to the construction site maybe ten times since getting her, and my motivations have usually been the same: I wanted to be forced to use my Spanish for a few hours a day, I thought it would be nice to get some exercise outside, and I secretly hoped that I’d be taught how to do something more specialized – like hammering a nail or stacking cinderblocks. Well, these last two days, my expectations/hopes were left unsatisfied: I was told to use my trust pick axe, shovel and wheelbarrow and move one big pile of dirt from the bottom room up a hill to make a different pile of dirt up top; I worked alone, so there were about 15 words of Spanish total; and I think I’ve only managed to give myself a sore back and aggravated my aching left ankle.

It’s amazing how lonely it can feel, just standing there, hacking away at a six foot mound of earth needing to be excavated while pebbles occasionally explode off a rock and dart into your eyes. Then once it’s loose, you load up your wheelbarrow to the brim, heaving it up a one foot wide, unsteady dirt hill, dumping it out in some obscure location, and walking back down to do it all again. The Guatemalan workers – the ones not affiliated with the school – watch you do the same thing over and over. They don’t want to talk to you, unless they have a joke… but even then, you can tell their not laughing with you. You just keep your head up, keep working hard, and wait for noon to arrive.

First Attempted Robbery?

I was walking down the hill from El Nahual to the road that takes you to both my new hostel and the construction site. Two workers were walking towards the school and the one stopped and shouted, “Churrasco,” barbecue in English, his “nickname” for me. “Why do you call me that?” I asked, and he said there was no reason, that it was just a nickname. He had a smirk on his face like he knew something I didn’t, the same smirk he had every time I walked by with the wheelbarrow. He joked that we were going to the coast, and I said, “Let’s go.” He smiled, put out his hand, and for an instant I thought that maybe I was somehow being tested and I had met his approval. I asked him what his nickname was and he said “the Camel,” as we shook hands.

His friend said his name was “Cornelio” and that he didn’t have a nickname. As we shook hands I noticed his left hand had someone made its way to my right front pocket, where my cell phone was bulging through my pants. He had barely gotten a fingertip in when I casually slapped it away, and he took the whole thing in stride. Part of me wants to believe he was just turning and his hand happened to collide with my leg, but I just don’t think it’s true. Nevertheless, I'll be back there tomorrow.