Chichicastenango y la Lucha Interminable

There is already much too much to write. To start with, Ryan and I have started “teaching.” One day last week, we went into the school for what we were told would be our orientation. I asked a few questions and we began looking at one of the textbooks when in walked a guy named Alejandro. Marilu, our boss of sorts, then subtly asked if we could teach him right then, and she shuffled Ryan and I into a tiny room connected to an Italian restaurant where we were to attempt to teach this man “3rd level” English (which is more difficult than you think when you haven’t had time to look through the book, haven’t been trained at all, and aren’t quite sure of how much English this fella knows.) Ay. So we did our best to teach Alejandro the difference between “this”, “that”, “those” and “these” while getting him to use his new vocabulary (he had a really difficult time pronouncing the word “vegetable”). English is weird. So I guess we’re teachers.

We will probably teach our own classes soon, but for the first two, we worked together since our schedule has been so random and last-minute. Our next student was Guillermo. He is a 6th level student, so we were able to teach using mostly English. It was a little easier the second time, except that none of the dry-erase markers worked. Try explaining the present perfect tense without any kind of a diagram or board. I think he gets it, though.

It also looks like I’ll be volunteering for this organization called Trama Textiles which is an association of women backstrap-loom weavers, representing 400 women from 17 groups in Guatemala. The women send their textiles to the store and sell them at the prices they want. To supplement costs, there is also a weaving school. It’s pretty cool. The main thing I’ll be working on right now is researching the history of Mayan weaving and then writing out what I feel is relevant so that the organization will have that information to pass onto the weaving students. It should be interesting. I already find myself staring at the designs on the huipiles and cortes (blouses and skirts) of the women in traje. And! I might get to learn how to weave!

A few days ago, I went through my first bout of inevitable indigestion problems, but I think the worst is behind me now. It was probably just my stomach and body getting used to the changes in diet and such. Needless to say, the weekend was pretty laid back for the most part.

Yesterday, however, Ryan and I woke up with the rising of the sun (so much has changed), and set out for Chichicastenango, home of the huge, famous market. To get there we had to hop a ride in our old friend, the microbus. It’s unbelievable how many people they pack into these things. The same goes for the “chicken buses” or 2nd class buses, but I’ll tell that story a little later on. Anyway, I’ve never sympathized so much with canned sardines until using the transportation in Guatemala. But seriously, what happened in the microbus (or the chicken bus) could easily be the set-up for a skit on any bad sketch comedy show. Picture a van. Every seat is already taken, and the door is hanging partially open, and the driver keeps stopping to let more people in. People are sitting 3 to a seat, 4 to a seat, standing, crouching, sprawled out across your lap. I’m sure someone would laugh at this. In this reality though, no one is laughing. They just have places to go.
We arrived at the bus terminal for the first time, trying to find the bus to take us to Chichicastenango. Some men ushered us to a bus at the end of the line and we hopped on. We soon found out that we’d have to get off the bus a few hours away at Los Encuentros and catch a second bus to Chichi. Fine. This was one of the more comfortable rides we had that day. I made faces at a cute little girl in the seat in front of me and was amused at a man who hopped on the bus and started to make a sales pitch. At first it sounded like he was going to start preaching about his religion and saving ourselves from our sinful ways, (like a man on the bus to Almolonga did), but he instead started talking about how the human brain works. He was equipped with visual aids and everything. This was all a platform so he could dive into what he really wanted to talk about: selling brain vitamins. Sadly no one was interested and he wished us all a “buen viaje.”

As planned, we got off the bus at Los Encuentros and jumped on our bus headed towards Chichi. We found seats in the back of the bus, which we later regretted as the bus driver drove insanely. At every bump in the road we were airborne. Thankfully, the ride wasn’t too long and we soon arrived in Chichi. I knew this because we began to see tons of white middle-aged tourists wearing wide-brimmed hats with cameras dangling from their necks unloading out of their shuttle buses. This shocked me for some reason, since I hadn’t seen so many tourists in one place in the country thus far, and especially not these kinds of tourists. I should have expected it though, as my trusty guidebook said to expect just that. With this in mind, we got out of the bus, ready to explore the market.

This was definitely by far, the biggest market we’ve seen in the country yet, but we have only been to the ones in the city and Almolonga. Things for sale included tapestries, blankets, jewelry, ceramics, masks, etc. and then the typical vegetables, fruits, shoes, and clothing (things the locals were interested in). I was excited to see the beaded bracelets I love so much everywhere—and at low prices I hadn’t encountered since Mexico. This was a blessing as my other beaded bracelets are lost or broken. So… I bought two! And I got to bargain with children twice, getting a great deal for a little beaded quetzal keychain. Oh yeah. This little girl said it was worth “15” (quetzales of course), and I said, “mmm, 7”, and she said, “8!” So I agreed. That’s like a dollar. Just then a woman who I can only assume was her mother came back and in Spanish reprimanded the girl for selling it to me so cheaply. But it was too late, I’d won! Ha! (Ok, maybe cheating a poor family out of a few quetzales isn’t a feat to be proud of… but the girl agreed.)

We wandered past stalls, still in a slight state of shock from the amount of gringos amongst us. It was sad to realize that to the vendors and people of the town, we were just like the rest of them. “But we’re different!” I wanted to shout. Being the minority in another country where they judge you immediately and write you off as dumb tourist who buys everything really makes you realize how rough it is to be in that position. I wish every ignorant, racist American was forced to leave the country and see what this is like, but for some reason I’m not sure they would all see it the same way.

It’s a terrible paradox, you see. I love to travel, but I hate tourists. I go somewhere and see other visitors and think “oh no”, but I myself am not unlike them. I guess it’s true that an American abroad is the biggest critic of other Americans. I just try to be the best open-minded visitor I can be, which is all that you can really do. So to be an American critic again, I do not think of some of these people were trying to be anything but obnoxious. They walked around videotaping the proceedings of the market, local people walking by, without even asking permission. And vendors constantly approached us, pushing their goods on us, hardly taking no for an answer. It makes you feel kind of bad, because you realize how poor they are, and this is probably how they make a lot of their money, but we did not want little dolls that “bring you good luck” or blankets at the moment. I tell you, the traders at Chichicastenango would make great telemarketers. They always do their second (third, fourth, and fifth) attempts. The most appalling case of awful tourists at their finest came when Ryan and I were asking a woman about the price of some blankets. There were two other older American women looking at some purses. In English we heard the younger woman ask the vendor in English how much the purse was. The vendor replied, “setenta.” (70). She then asked, “best price?” several times to which the vendor did not answer. How rude. I mean, this woman’s first language isn’t even Spanish, and you’re expecting her to know what “best price” in English even means. So Ryan stepped in and started interpreting for them. The vendor said her best price would be 60 quetzales, to which the dumb American broad replied, “try 55”.. the vendor wouldn’t budge. I mean, you already asked best price, and she said 60, what more do you want? Oh, and the difference between 55 and 60 quetzales is a whole 65 cents. I bet that would really set her back. And then she didn’t even thank us for helping her. Ugh, people. At least these people are giving some of their money to this country, I guess. That’s the best I can really say.

Anyway. Expectedly, we had to dodge the crowds a few times, and turn onto a side street away from all of the clamor. It always amazes me in very touristy congested areas, how sometimes you can just turn onto a side street and it’s suddenly perfectly calm. You wouldn’t know you were just a block away. I took a few clandestine pictures of the church and the smaller church whose steps we were sitting on.





Around 2:00 or so we started to head back. Even though I had mostly negative things to say, I’m glad that we went, if nothing else, just so that we could see what it was like and have more perspective. The bus ride back to Los Encuentros was on of the most excruciating, surreal experiences. Everyone was already sitting three to a seat in this old North American school bus. Ryan, myself, and some other folks had to stand in the aisle where there was already hardly any room. Somehow, more people still kept climbing into the bus. My arms were gripping onto the metal bars above me as we soared down the mountains, my legs sandwiched between one man’s leg and a little girl’s sleeping body. I couldn’t believe it when the fare-collector walked out the door (while the bus was in motion), climbed on top of the bus, walked to the back, and opened the back door and started asking for money, pushing through all of us where no space was thought to have existed.

Somehow we survived, and the bus ride back to Xela was comparatively uneventful. We walked all the way back home from the bus terminal, which really didn’t take too long. The sun was just beginning to set and I took a few pictures of the empty Sunday streets and the lovely sky.



Back to Xela life, things at the apartment have been interesting. I have thankfully discovered how to take warm showers, which makes me happier than I would have thought possible. Apparently, all you have to do is turn the knob ever so slightly to the left until the water makes a “harder” sound when it hits the tile. That means it’s warm! Haha, of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that on my own. There are women here cleaning almost everyday so far, sometimes with little children, sometimes not. We aren’t sure if they live here, but we learned two of their names. Here you can see our room:




That’s about all for now. I should also mention that Ryan has been posting has pictures (which so far have all been of things I’ve been at as well) at http://www.flickr.com/photos/iamsullivant if you’d care to take a looksee.