Mi Cuarto (y más)

Aquí está mi cuarto pequeño guatemalteco. Me encanta.
This is my tiny Guatemalan bedroom. I love it. I have a bed, a desk, a chest of drawers, and a funny little nightstand sort of thing that my host mother said was "para los zapatos." Lo que sea. It's just enough and nada más. Unfortunately the "hot shower" is anything but; however I expected as much. In general the living arrangement here is very comfortable, and certainly couldn't be much cheaper. The cost of my home stay, including 3 meals a day on every day but Sunday, is included in the $150/week for the language school.


My daily schedule consists of getting up at around 7 am, taking a shower (if I feel brave) and brushing my teeth and whatnot, and heading downstairs for desayuno a las 7 y media. Then I head to school, which is about a 10 minute walk from la casa. I have a solid 5-hour one-on-one tutorial with a local teacher (and they're all pretty excelente), with a little 30-minute break thrown in for good measure.

Celas Maya seems to have been the best choice. I've seen the other schools, at least from the outside or through their doors, and they seem all but abandoned. Celas Maya is the biggest in town and has a great mezcla of people from all over the world. I'd say about half of us are U.S. Americans, and another quarter are from other Anglophonic countries (e.g., England, Australia). There are also some Germans and Dutch folks, and a Swede who left this afternoon. Greta, the international coordinator, says that the busy season doesn't really start until late June and July, and then we'll have up to 100 people at one time. I can't really imagine it. I don't know where they put all the desks. Anyway, it's nice to spend my time staying busy, either learning and using Spanish or meeting interesting folks from all corners. And it's also good, I think, that everyone tries to speak in Spanish even when we share a first language.

As far as actually learning Spanish, I think this was definitely a good choice. I'm already feeling caught up to where I left off with my last Spanish course, and after a couple more weeks at this rate, I hope to understand conversations even between Guatemaltecos who aren't speaking slowly for me. Last night I had the chance to correct my host mother's Spanish... she said "nuestra sistema..." while we were discussing the new law that requires schools to offer courses in the children's native language. But I decided I'd best let that one slip by. Don't want to anger the host mother :)

Guatemala celebrated its Mother's Day on Wednesday. It was pretty interesting... my host mother has 3 sisters, and they all came over to help put together a big lunch with grilled chicken and veggies and a strange salad-like mix of boiled potatoes, apples, and pineapple. Anyway, seeing the whole family gathered around and the abuela at the center of it all reminded me of Christmas with my own family. And the abuela (grandmother) is really a character. She wears traditional clothing, which is absolutely beautiful, and she got up and started dancing around with her grandchildren and generally having a good time.

Tomorrow I'm meeting up with a couple of girls from U-Texas to explore the city and find some gifts for my own Mother's day. More to come...

Carlos de Livingston

I'm tired but I can't go to sleep yet. I'm awaiting the arrival of the last house guest, another guy who will be departing for Celas Maya in the morning. There are 3 others here, med students from South Carolina who are going to a different school in Xela -- I think the same one as Dr. Wertsch's son.
I've had a blur of a day -- a nice breakfast at Bob Evans with Beck and Joey, and then long lines at MIA to check-in.
The "guy" just arrived, downstairs. Sounds like a girl, though. Should I put on my shirt?
Anyway, the story of Carlos: After I collected my luggage and exited the airport to the area flanked by taxi drivers and hotel van drivers, there was no one to be found wielding my name on a little poster. I was a little bummed, though not really alarmed, because I figured it would mean the start of some unwanted drama. I could see myself getting a taxi to an internet cafe, looking up the number or address of the bed & breakfast... the sort of adventure I've grown weary of pursuing during my travels. It's not that I couldn't find the place on my own -- I arrived in Budapest at 10 pm and made my way to the hostel where I'd booked a room the week before. It's just that, when you're told to expect a guy holding up your name, it starts to sound like an awfully cushy way to travel.
Anyway, while I was standing around waiting patiently for my ride to arrive (apparently this was the lesson I needed to learn from Courtney on Thursday), a guy smiled at me and said something to the effect of " I'll bet you came from someplace else and won't hate me because of my skin." Not your usual opening line from someone looking for a few tourist dollars. This guy, whose name was Carlos, was of African descent and spoke with a coft creole accent that made me think he hailed from the Caribe -- but it turns out he's from Livingston, on the Caribbean coast of Guatemala. He told me that Guatemalans won't talk to people with dark skin like his, and our brief exchange really seemed to excite him a bit. We chatted about languages, and about Carlos' s time in the US, where he tried to find work but got caught in Philadelphia by the INS. A Dominican pointed him out for $100. U.S. Marshalls then deported him to a prison in Guatemala City, where he languished for 3 days before the warden released him on account of "insufficient budget" to keep him locked up. Talk about immigration reform: here was one un-success story shaking my hand. Anyway, the situation was pretty skewed: Carlos got kicked out of my country, but here I was freely entering his. It was also strange to be hailed as an open-minded opponent of racism. Coming from Mississippi, I'm not used to such flattery.
Carlos mentioned with visible pleasure that "even cops" in Philadelphia would greet him on the street, unlike most Guatemalans who turned to glare at him for hassling a white tourist.
Let's hope things work out for Carlos.. maybe one day I'll run into him again, on my side of the border.
On a digressive tangent, Becky and Joey and I got a small taste of what it's like to be discriminated against when we pulled over, quite hungry, to eat at the Palm City Grill in Port St Lucie last night for dinner. I don't know if it was our clothing or what, but the condescending attitudes of the staff were pretty aggrevating. The waitress talked down to us like we'd never eaten at a restaurant before, which was particularly ironic considering we'd just eaten at Emeril's multi-star fusion restaurant the night before. We joked that we'd rather have just one of our four waiters from Emeril's -- even the one "in training" who only replenished our silverware -- rather than the arrogant blonde crank we got at Palm City. They must have sensed our displeasure, because before we left they switched our waitress on us. At least the seafood bisque was tasty.
The second-coolest experience of my day (after meeting Carlos) was seeing the nearly-empty storefront with "se vende tortillas" written above, where 3 or 4 young girls in traditional cortes were busily hand-crafting tortillas. It was a pretty amazing site.
On a related note, we had tasty chicken with rice and vegetables for dinner. And fresh fruit. I reminded myself that I don't like papaya.