Top 10 Summertime Highlights

Though I’m gearing up for “summer” to begin (the school year ends in October), the traditional summer months fueled me with great stories and good memories. The top 10 is a slightly more condensed list, opposed to my other stories summarizing the summer.

Top 10 lessons learned from living in Guatemala, summer 2009:

10. Realizing that the greater proportions of my friends are between four and five-years-old, or sixty-four and sixty-five-years-old. Both age groups make time to chat and joke-around, which in turn improves my Spanish.

9. Learning to speak Mam from a woman in town. And though Mam is challenging it’s a strange relief to switch to Spanish. The happiest baby in the Northern Hemisphere lives in the same house.

8. Engaging in frequent conversations while walking down the four-street-town and allowing an extra fifteen minutes or more to get from place-to-place. The next thing is never as important as the present.

7. Making friends with nuclear-families as a means to be invited to family events. In May, my site-mate and I visited the Xetulu theme park with one of the premier fun-families in town. A day of riding Guatemalan roller coasters taught me that, “AAAaaaAAaaaHHHhhhhhHHHHhh,” has the same translation from English to Spanish.

6. Watching the AFI (American Film Institute) 100 list with my site-mate. Sixteen movies down and 84 to go, tells me that I’ve been missing out on an entire medium of expression, pre-2009.

5. Learning through teaching. Between my normal classes in the schools and my occasional English classes in site, I've been learning some important teaching tactics to engage students, as well as learning more Spanish to make me a competent communicator (even among my preschool friends).

4. Traveling to the U.S. for college friends’ wedding in Michigan for a fleeting five day journey. Though I live far away, maintaining friendships at home is equally as important as meeting new friends here.

3. Taking excessive day-trips for the sake of sanity. While most of what I learned this past summer occurred in my site, I’ve realized that taking a four hour trip to the ocean, sitting on the beach for ten minutes, swimming for ten minutes, and lounging with friends under a shaded hut for lunch, all before making the journey back on the same day, is sometimes just what I need to refresh my Spanish and cultural sensitivity.

2. Celebrating the Fourth of July outside U.S. borders. An American style BBQ, Guatemalan beer, and a collection of favorite music, can bring PCVs together for a common cause—to celebrate the country and culture we’re positively promoting in Guatemala.

1. Visiting family. My sister and brother-in-law, RPCVs (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) who also served in Guatemala and ended their service in 2008, spent a week at my schools and visiting their old site as well, this past May. Another generation made it through 27 months here, millions of other PCVs have completed their service since 1961, there’s no reason I can’t too.

Staying strong. Overcoming obstacles. Accepting the challenge.

Gems from the Summer

Though it's rainy season in Guatemala, and Guatemalans call this time of year "winter," I'll always consider June through August "summer." Summer passed quickly this year; I was still working (the school year runs January through October) and busy days turn into short weeks. Time flies. The following stories come from some of my favorite moments this past summer.


¡Ya queremos pastel!

The Guatemalan birthday party has come to be a common routine for me. Somebody invites me, or my site mate and me together. We go bearing soda or something to share. We become the center of attention at the party, where people sit in chairs, lined around the perimeter of the room. And I can always count on someone asking me to sing one of my favorite Spanish songs or say one of my favorite local Guatemalan phrases. And even if they don’t think I understand everything they say, they ask me to say “puchica” (wow) or the like, and I can fit in as if I’m a local.

Perhaps my favorite tradition, of course aside from serenading the group with one of my favorite Vicente Fernandez songs, El Chofer (“Voy a arrancar, soy el chofer…”), is the presentation of the birthday cake. The Guatemalan birthday cake always tastes a little different than it looks. The design is elaborate, and the inside is more like bread, soaked in fruit juice. One of the hosts brings the cake to the birthday boy, girl, man, or woman, and group sings, in English, “Happy birthday to you…,” followed by, “Ya queremos pastel…” And after singing, the guests scream for the birthday boy, girl, man, or woman, to take a big bite. And after he or she takes that bite, I usually step in to take a picture of the cake covered face. And then we eat, and people ask me to sing or say more select local words.

In May, we celebrated my birthday at my site mate’s house. My sister and brother-in-law returned Peace Corps Guatemala volunteers were visiting, and volunteers from near-by sites also came to celebrate. We made homemade pizza, I wore a birthday hat, and we ate cake (though I did not smash my face into the center of it). But when our Guatemalan friends came over, we put on the Spanish music, and per usual, I sang my favorite lines from Vicente’s greatest hits. The day would not have been complete otherwise.





Language Acquisition through TV and Film

Sometimes I find myself hanging around my house on a Friday or Saturday night, when I don’t feel like traveling part-way across the country for entertainment. And many times I find myself lingering after I cook dinner, at which time I find out the latest news, the best argument on Guatemalan talk shows, or a familiar dubbed movie. It was not until the family flipped the channel to Chucky the other night, that I had learned my host-mom is such a fan of horror movies. Daily, we make jokes, she listens to music while washing clothes, and she bakes bread in the brick oven (all very tranquil activities), but in the evenings when we see the horror line-up, she laughs at the little “muñeco” that happens to come to life. Simultaneously strange and amazing!

Sometimes I feel like every moment of my life here is like I’m in class, whether absorbing new vocabulary and engaging in conversation, or learning new cultural gems, such as the happiness a horror movie brings.


The Clash of Three Languages

Len nan.
(Buenos días señora.)
[Good morning ma’am.]

Ti nik’x teya?
(¿Cómo está usted?)
[How are you?]

B’a’n intine chjonte, yatzan teya?
(Bien gracias. ¿Y usted?)
[Well thanks. And you?]

B’a’n.
(Bien.)
[Well.]

Kwentanx tib’a, qin we.
(Cuidese, hasta luego.)
[Take care of yourself, see you later.]

Ku cheb’xa.
(Que le vaya bien.)
[Go well.]

At the end of July, I began weekly Mam (pronounced “mom”) class (the Mayan language that 94% of the people in my municipality speak). And though learning at least some words and phrases in Mam will be sufficient, while I hone my Spanish skills, the language (spoken predominantly in Huehuetenango and San Marcos), varies drastically in dialect from municipality to municipality.

The three schools where I teach are located in the municipality of Santa Barbara, anywhere from 20 minutes to an-hour-and-a-half from my town center in San Se. My schools are bilingual, meaning the kindergarteners are just learning Spanish and they are learning the majority of their curriculum in Mam, and as the years go on, students continue to learn more Spanish until the entirety of their curriculum is taught in Spanish. But even if I want to teach and/or greet my classes in Mam, I need to learn the Santa Barbara dialect.

Mam does not have similar sounds as English or Spanish. Mam is spoken manly from the throat. Of the 36 characters in the Mam alphabet, 13 of the characters include an apostrophe, which makes a sound that I am not trained or perhaps even able to make. I often feel like I’m beat-boxing, while I’m really just saying, “How are you? See you later.”

And more than anything, I think that translating from Spanish to Mam, while often thinking in English and translating my thoughts to Spanish, makes it that much harder to learn. This may be a sign that I need to stop thinking in English all together—in which case, I lose command of all languages and cannot communicate with anyone.

While the synapses work in rapid fire, completing my English thoughts and my Spanish words, I’ve found myself speaking Spanish and every once-in-a-while, absent mindedly slipping an English word into the dialog, confusing listeners more than they might already be confused by my Spanish, and/or my Spanish with a Midwestern accent. Even if I speak grammatically correct, my words are meaningless, if I slip a long Minnesota “a” (which makes a harsh “ay” sound) into any Spanish word.

But perhaps the most candid moment of the shift from English to Spanish, happened in the grocery store the other day. I was looking for milk (“leche”—a simple Spanish word). But somewhere else in the store, I saw the word “saludable,” shifted to English and thought “healthy,” switching to thoughts about my program “escuelas saludables,” and then pulling up a mental vocab. list concerning words for my health classes. Still, I couldn’t find where milk might be shelved, but all the time, I was looking for “leche materna”. Mother’s milk?! To which I had to think, “Wait…is that really what I’m looking for?” Generally confused by my Spanish and English thoughts, I was relieved that I didn’t ask someone in the store, “¿Disculpe, adónde puedo buscar leche maternal de la pechuga?” Yikes.

The preceding paragraphs were a jumble—such is my mind.

Life After Capacitación: To San Sebastián...

 

Our only emotions after swear-in and before moving to our respective sites. In a word: terror.

 

An aerial view of San Sensebatián (San Se), as seen running up the mountain through a nearby aldea community.

 

My host-home for the first three months in site - a view of the big garden behind the pila, where I brush my teeth, wash my clothes and do my dishes. Second to the family, the garden was a selling point when I was choosing a place to live once I arrived in site at the end of March.

Juramentación - Swear-in Day, March 27, 2009: The First Day of the Next Two Years

 

Our Training Director speaking at the Ambassador's residence in Guatemala City, moments before we took the oath and committed to our service in Peace Corps Guatemala.

 

My Parramos host-mom Doña Berta and me on the Ambassador's grounds.

 

The families and other PCTs with whom I lived in Parramos for my first three months of training.

 

The "Healthy Schools" half of my training group and Peace Corps Guatemala Country Director.

Peace Corps Training: My First Three Months in Country

 

Parramos host-mom Doña Berta - always ready with a joke on hand.

 

The Catholic Church in Parramos where my host-family attended.

 

College friend Ben and me, catching up in Antigua, while living in the same country and working in different programs. Small world. Necessary travel buddy.

 

The outside view of my host-home in Parramos.

The Life of Profe Marcos

In the U.S., the name "professor" is an esteemed title to describe a scholar who teaches at the collegiate-level and has completed years of education and various benchmarks on the faculty-ladder. Here, if you’re a teacher, you automatically get the title of "profesor" or "profesora". And though undergoing four years of college and obtaining an undergraduate degree in the U.S. is important to enter into any sort of professional career, when considering the number of people in the U.S. who have post-graduate degrees, an undergraduate degree doesn’t usually deem the initials "B.A." after someone's name. Here, I may be referred to as "licenciado". And despite having a college degree, as a minimum requirement for a Peace Corps Volunteer, I more-than-likely communicate at the level of a first grader.

I’ve completed two months, working in three rural schools. My job as "school health facilitator" seems like it is beginning to evolve as I continue to work and live here. These past two months I’ve been giving health lessons to 26 classes per week among my three schools. More and more, I’m learning: what will work and conversely what will not work, what classes will participate and conversely look at me like I’m speaking a foreign language (sometimes Spanish is foreign, as all the schools are bilingual Mam speaking as well), and which activities are too childish for sixth graders and conversely beyond the capabilities of the completely Mam speaking kindergartners.

Each day lasts from 7:30AM – 12:30PM—piece of cake compared to U.S. school schedules. Nevertheless, my farthest school is an hour-and-a-half away from my site. The alarm goes off at 5:00AM, I revert to my college behaviors and hit the snooze button multiple times and I’m on the road, starting at 5:45AM or 6:00AM. From my site I take a "camioneta" (or converted U.S. school bus) and hop on a "microbus" or "camion" (a flatbed truck that tightly packs many people). The dirt road is bumpy and standing often feels better than absorbing the shock with my shoulders, as I smash into the bars onto which I hold, with every teeter across the rough terrain. We hit some construction on the way and wait for 30 minutes until the road opens back up. The short five hours of school becomes a nine hour day, from wake-up time to the time I return home.

One school, however, is an easy bus ride away, with about five minutes of careful walking, as an attempt not to tumble down rocky hillsides. It’s often a welcome relief to sleep-in a bit and to know that just transporting myself won’t be the hardest part of the day.

Commonly sung songs during my lessons include "Canción de los Piojos" set to the tune of "La Cucaracha," singing about such an eloquent topic as lice, as well as the song, "Con un cepillo, me cepillo yo…," which becomes a sort of jig, using your whole body, demonstrating just how many "toothbrushes" you might use to brush your teeth (two arms, two legs, butt, head, and your whole body). I’m starting to lack taste in real music.

Everyday classes of students range from half-asleep to receptive and participatory, and my confidence fluctuates from that of despair to feeling successful. Such is Peace Corps—you never know what will happen next!

And so it was...Easter

It's been awhile since I had a chance to update; however, I had full intentions of doing so Easter weekend. The following is a little gem I decided had to be typed up soon after the event (now almost a month ago). A must read - enjoy. This is my life.

This past Saturday, ready to get back to San Se after a Semana Santa diversion in Xela and another Volunteer’s house, I left early in the morning to catch a bus. Transportation was limited during Holy Week and the country virtually shut down, so leaving early was the only hope of making it back at all.

I set out on the street that I thought led me to the highway, but it made an unnoticeable turn, so before I knew it I was going up a mountain and into a nearby aldea. I stopped to ask for directions and despite my wrong turn, I could still access the highway and could even hear cars driving past somewhere in my general vicinity if I continued walking up.

I checked-in one last time with a woman who was standing on the dirt road, just to make sure my early morning quad workout wasn’t completely worthless. The woman ensured me that I was headed in the right direction, but it became clear that she was standing on the road in search of a passer-by. She asked if I would be able to help her lift something. Seemingly harmless, I said I could help out. I assumed she had to move a table, as many street vendors (before I thought about the fact that this was not the place for a typical street-vendor-setup).

I entered the house compound area and entered the kitchen, including a table, a man standing next to the table and a woman brewing a large pot in the corner, over an open-fire-stove. More family members entered the room and looked surprised of the stranger their mother had picked up along the dirt road. I still thought we were lifting the table until I stepped around the table, where I encountered pig—feet and snout, both tied with a long rope.

I started laughing. I’m not sure if the family thought it was, even in the slightest, a strange proposition to ask a stranger to help lift a pig onto the butcher block in its last moments of life, but all I could do was laugh and say, “Lo siento. Este es muy comico.”

Backup arrived on the scene and two more people entered the room. I’d never lifted a live pig onto a butcher block before. I wanted a tutorial. Do I get gloves? Do I have to bear hug the mid-section, or can I just pull on the rope? Why can’t this just be done from the floor? But there was no time to ask logistics or even logic. I was about to offer all my strength and lift this animal onto the table. This was rather personal…we had just met.

On "tres," we lifted. Uno-dos-tres…and here I am, holding the mid-section of a bound-pig, suspended by a rope. Squirming in the hands of the other helpers and flailing from my rope, I hoped that we didn’t drop it. I wouldn’t have been nice to leave, but I really wasn’t experienced in this area of raising livestock. And on the table it laid.

The woman who recruited me offered me a couple Quetzales. I had to refuse the tip, but instead, asked if I could take a picture.

And there I had evidence to back up my adventure. One wrong turn and I was nearly a butcher. One wrong turn and I made a story, all before 8AM.