Tales of Guate V: Small Victories and Last Times

I got home from a party a few nights ago, where I had had a few too many glasses of wine. I dreamt the entire night in Spanish. They say when you start dreaming in another language, it says something about your fluency. It’s hard for me to say because the dream made absolutely no sense. So, perhaps I am becoming fluid in nonsensical Spanish. Which will help me if I am put in a loony bin here, or if i continue to meet nonsensical people in my dreams.

But whether I've achieved fluency or not doesn't really matter at this point--I'm soon to be heading home. It is four weeks from today that I will be returning to the United States, and nine months of my life that I will be looking back on, hopefully, with a lot more intelligence and insight than I can possibly do at this very moment.

I am starting to enter that space where things feel like last times. A tree is a last time or a person is a last time or the cemetery in Huehuetenango (below) is a last time.

Even a hot day after school sometimes feels like a last time. Today is Saturday, and in a few days, my friend Jen Dean will arrive and we will visit Lake Atitlan. And it will be my last time.
After Jen’s visit, I’ve got just two weeks to pack it all up and head back to the States. With goodbye parties and final papers, those last weeks will fly. So, this may be the final version of Tales of Guate.

I have been attempting to mentally prepare for departure and have decided, here, to concentrate on some of my little victories.

Here is a top 12:

• I now can sleep through the blaring traffic that roars down Septima Avenida every morning just below my window (though my visiting guests can’t)

• My students finally think I’m cool (or at least they have realized that giving me that impression is helpful to their grades because I like to think I am cool.)

• One of my students pointed out a “pun” in class the other day. (For those of you who have ever taught ESL or have actually learned English as a second language, you will know what an incredible achievement this is.)
  

• The pulgas never returned, although they sent a few cockroach cousins in their stead. But the cockas are easier to kill. (Where is my ahimsa?)

• I finally made it to the synagogue across the street, which is very beautiful. It required five levels of security for my entry, and then, I was placed on the “women’s side” of the synagogue, in which I was surrounded by young mothers and children who didn’t stop talking through the whole service. They served Chinese food afterward, so that all felt very nice and American. I never did return but I can't stop thinking about the metal green light fixture that ascends from the ceiling in stacked, opposing triangles with small white lights and metal green leaves attached.

• I am still doing Yoga. I am only actually practicing about twice a week, but it is always in my thoughts.

• I found seitan at a local grocer. If you know what that is, you will be overjoyed for me. If you don’t, you probably won’t care.

• I finally figured out, after messing with all of the dials on my refrigerator, that the best way to deal with the massive leaking of water at the bottom, is to stuff a towel in it.

• In the midst of the Israel/Hezbollah conflict, some of my students started throwing around anti-Semitic comments, like, “Jews should move to Alaska where nobody cares about them”. But despite the sentiments of hatred, I was able to turn it into an opportunity for us to talk about the difference between government policy, people, and ethnicities which, it turns out, the students were really itching to talk about. And it was a great opening for a lesson on bias in journalism. Score.
  

• I learned that Guatemalans actually attach regular leather or canvas belts instead of seat belts to the side of a car when a seat belt is broken. They do this to fool the police. When you get in, you rest the belt across your lap. Do not try fastening it. You will have no success. And do not get into a bad accident. You will probably die.

• I learned the subjunctive. I don’t know it perfectly, but I know what it means and how to use it. If you speak Spanish, you will applaud me. If you don’t, you will probably not care.

• My students can speak English. They can write articles in English and interview people in English and read English language newspapers. They can criticize their government in English and, sure as hell, can criticize our government in English too. They can argue and curse in English (and they do.) They are beautiful. They are my biggest accomplishment.

But, perhaps some of the more important work that I am doing here is outside of the classroom. Or, at least, has nothing to do with journalism. I converse with my students. I write them letters to get them scholarships. I call the US to get them information about studying abroad. I go to their dance recitals and their weddings. I have them over for dinner. They come to me when they get mugged or when they have health problems or family situations. In some ways, I am not just a teacher but an older sibling. They trust me. They feel free to say anything. I think that trust is important. It's as important as any other lesson you can teach.

My favorite university teacher was this guy Chris Funkhowser. He was a poetry teacher at Albany, but he also prepared us for living in the world, for thirsting for knowledge, for welcoming the unknown. He used to make us email our term papers into him during a time when email meant typing a whole load of letters into an unsave-able screen just so that moments before you hit send, the "S" button would get irreversibly stuck down in the keyboard, like an anti-technology rat was clamping down on it inside the system, and the entire thing would implode or reject you and admonish you for using too many "S"s and apologize in a very unconvincing way before shutting down and decidedly not saving a word of your term paper. Then you'd have to start again. We hated that process. But we graduated understanding technology, learning patience, and having been taught that things don't always go as planned. It also taught us that the future keeps changing and that we must change with it.

So, in a sense, that is what I am aiming for. To put out ideas about what is possible. To frustrate my students until they can see beyond the frustration, and see not just the homework and the classes but the real lessons, the interconnectedness of us all as human beings, to see the gifts we walk past often without opening - and open them.

*************

So, all of this said, my time here is running out. My energies are more and more directed toward the idea of and the logistical tasks involved in leaving. I will miss this place in ways I probably don’t understand right now. I will miss it in the way you miss a section of your life that hangs suspended in memory marked by only a few incidents and people and colors, but as a section nonetheless, an epoca, a period of time that existed somehow on another plane where it seems like you can still put your hand to it, raise a glass to it, say a word to it, but it is gone, really, gone, to the place where memory holds it, trapped in intangibility and distortion.

I have been spending a lot of time here with memory, and to that effect, a lot of time with many of you who are reading this, even though you don't necessarily know it. When you live alone, you visit memory a lot. We have become old, though sometimes impossible, friends.

Living alone, and somewhat isolated, has been wonderful in so many ways. But it can be best summed up in this one sentence someone told me once: “You get to know yourself really well.” So, I know myself pretty well now. I know that I really was the one cleaning the bathroom at my old house; I also know that I really was the one using all of the toilet paper. I know that I like my quiet space but that I starve just a little without conversation. I know I like light and warm days and to be awake on clear nights, alone, when the world is sleeping. I know I like a smooth clean floor I can walk barefoot on but that I don't always have the ganas to clean it.

I’ve learned to have more patience for myself, to see each moment as only that, a moment, that will pass, that will become another moment, that will pass, too. I’ve learned that a random cry is ok every now and again and the less reason you have for it, the better.

I’ve also learned that it’s not where you go in this life, but who you are there with. I feel like I have seen enough now of the world that I can say that. This realization won’t stop me from traveling alone. But it will always keep me searching for those magical people—many of whom I have found here—who make the world's treasures so much more worth uncovering.

Tales of Guate IV: Rain, Ruins, and Bodily Fluids

Rainy season has set in. The nonstop metaphoric rains of which I talked about in my last missive have now taken physical shape. The rain comes everyday. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and sometimes in the night. But it never misses a day. Finally, something I can depend on.

Sometimes the rain here is gentle. Sometimes it pours hard, like a thundergod bemoaning the loss of his thundergoddess. The majority of the time, however, the rain is just constant, strong, and warm. Much like a good friend.

Clearly, if you are keeping track of my adventures, you’ll notice that I have gone two months without so much as a word. These past two months have been somehow harder to put into words than the first four. I think that is because the logistical aspects of living here have settled down into an almost normal routine (this is not a complaint). I finally have my DSL service set up (please see bottom for Skype info), my money is in order, I am speaking the language well enough, and I know my way around the city. I even have cable TV. (They say it’s a good tool for learning Spanish.) And so, my brain has had ample time to focus on the emotional aspects of my being here which are harder to share in such a public forum.

Translation: I don’t want to bitch and moan at large.

But I would like to share some of what has transpired.

First off, I was granted my extension. As luck would have it, I had to make the decision whether or not to take it during a somewhat tumultuous minute and half during which I was no longer sure I really wanted it. I didn’t know what to do. The wheels were already in motion, the contract drafted, the check cut, and I was sick with a four-week parasitic wonder, still reeling from being left clothes-less from the robbery, and having sticky relationship issues. In addition, I was having trouble getting my university to commit to the exactitudes of a contract and the Embassy was doing little to help me out. In the end, I signed the embassy contract for the extension. I did it for the learning process, because my Spanish is still a paltry intermediate mess, at best. I did it for the money, which is not a fortune, but more than I would be saving in San Francisco or New York. I did it for the experience, which has its ups and downs, but is never short of moments. And frankly, I did it because I said I would do it and felt I should do it. And so now it has been done. I will be here until September 30.

The first semester of classes ended in the third week of May, and I have not been teaching for almost five weeks. So, you may (or may not) wonder, what have I been doing?

Mostly, traveling.

My brother, Keith, came out here mid-May and we traveled for a week together through the most popular tourist destinations of Guatemala on roads that left my brother wondering how there are still so many people alive in Guatemala. We were accompanied the first few days by my friend Dianna, who had been previously hanging around in Costa Rica. The three of us started our journey by heading out to Tikal for two days, the most famous site of Mayan ruins in Guatemala and beyond. Tikal is truly incredible, especially if you get up before sunrise and wander into the park and just gaze, in silence, at the enormous stone buildings that once were palaces and residences of Mayan folks who weren’t low on dough.

We took a little tour and learned where the royal ones bathed and had their babies and sat on their thrones. Tikal was buried under brush and forestation until it was discovered some years ago, and apparently many believe there is more to be discovered with a good, solid, archeological weedwacker. It is surrounded by total jungle and the most exciting part was when Keith discovered a giant spider in my bed which he was certain was hunting for prey. The spider was actually more afraid of us than we were of it, but even so we kept it for one day on display outside our hotel room trapped in a tall water glass.

Keith and I also did a canopy tour, but it was somewhat sketchier than the one I had done in Costa Rica. In Costa Rica, we had helmets, English-speaking trained guides, and a pre-departure lesson. In Tikal, we had three teenage boys who spoke no English drive us through some bumpy roads, hand us a couple of harnesses that looked like they were acquired at Walmart, quickly flash a how-to pamphlet, and send us flying down the line.

"Who's first?" the eldest, 14, asked us in Spanish. Keith looked at me and said, respectfully, "You are."


After that, we headed to Antigua and then to the beautiful Lake Atitlan. Lake Atitlan is this tranquil, wide lake that is surrounded by looming volcanoes. All was going well until, all in one night, I got violently ill, Dianna and I almost set my room on fire, my brother and I discovered, too late, that our beds were infested with fleas, and my brother lost a chunk of quetzales in a local poker game. Things went downhill from there.


It seems that there are two things I can’t seem to avoid in Guatemala – stomach parasites and fleas. I am starting to feel like a pet. I have a whole new empathy for Snoopy and Garfield. Life just sucks when bugs are constantly feeding on you.

The vacation got somewhat worse when, on the last day, my brother and I received news that one of our very close relatives passed away. Within hours, we were both on the plane back to New York. I was unable to get a seat on Keith’s direct flight, so I took the indirect flight, which stopped in Honduras, and cost nearly a thousand dollars, familiarizing myself with airplane and airport lavatories along the way.

It was a terribly sad event for many of us, especially my father, who was very close to my cousin Rhona, who is missed by so many. But I felt blessed to be, even for only two days, surrounded by family again.

Somehow in the midst of all of this, my father managed to take me to a real, Western doctor in New Jersey to check out the recurrence of my digestive mishaps. OK, actually the doctor’s English wasn’t that good and she thought Guatemala was in Mexico, but my brother comforted me by saying that these other lackings were because she concentrated so hard on medicine. Anyway, at least she was able to send me for the tests I needed. My dad and I spent a memorable father-daughter bonding day together, as I had various fluids extracted from me.

I didn’t realize a stool test was a test you could fail, but apparently there is a science to filling up those little vials. There is brightly-colored liquid you cannot spill, there are minimum amounts which you must measure, there are temperatures which you must not exceed. There are four vials that you must fill. And if you do not conform with these various guidelines, your test is not accepted and you must register to take it again. It is worse than the GRE.

I did not do well my first time around and was shamefully forced to request a second set of containers to try again. Knowing that we were on a tight deadline, and that I had already failed the test once, my dad and I set out for a greasy spoon diner and I, who had been eating nothing but rice and bananas for several weeks, sat down to a cheese-covered veggie burger, diner salad bar, and strong cup of coffee. I made it halfway through the meal before having to excuse myself from the table. Pleased with the success of our plan, we headed back to the lab and I proudly handed over my materials. The lines had all been reached, the containers full, I had done well.

“You are missing the green container,” said the lab tech in between sloshing to and fro what seemed like an oversized Jolly Rancher around in her mouth. Considering the subject at hand, the sound made me feel sick.

“The green one?” I said. “They told me the green one was supposed to be thrown away!” I was furious. It was like being told I had to retake the whole test because I didn’t use a Number 2 pencil or skipped one of the bubbles on the answer sheet.

“Who did you talk to before?” said the lab tech.
“A lady,” I responded.
“The black one, the white one, the Latin one?” she pressed. I couldn’t remember. And, of course, it didn’t matter. The problem was still the green one. And so my dad and I ventured back to the diner bathroom to find the discarded “green one” and finish the deed.

At the end of the day, my father put his arm around me, smiled, and said, “The next time you’re in, let’s maybe go to a museum, yes?”

The next day, I left on a direct flight back to Guatemala, was here for all of two days, and then, feeling much better after finishing my parasite-killer meds, headed out for my pre-planned trip to the United States, which was to start in San Francisco. I spent a total of 10 days in San Francisco and New York, which flew by much faster than any two days I spend here in Guatemala. I seriously think I lost time. In San Francisco, my main goal, apart from visiting with friends was to torture said friends with the task of helping me shop to replace all of my stolen belongings. My friends did well. They had way more patience than I did. My other main goal was to eat. And I ate. I ate salads. I ate fish. I ate tofu and seitan and tempeh and brown rice and seaweed and fresh broccoli and cooked carrots and udon noodles. I drank tap water. Gleefully. And I am happy to say that I put back on all of the weight I had lost from the parasites. And then some. I left San Francisco exhausted, but feeling well-fed, well-loved, and, finally, well-clothed.

Next stop was New York. The primary mission in NY was to spend time with my family. It was good, but a bit exhausting because, unlike in San Francisco where I was housed by my roomies at 3020 Market and based in one place, my family in NY is very spread out and I slept somewhere different every night. Canarsie, Park Slope, New Jersey. Beds, sofas, armchairs. I only got into Manhattan twice, both for short jaunts, one a social trip (which included a stop at Zen Palate) and the other a determined mission to Century 21. I met my brother downtown for lunch and we took a photo together in front of the big hole in the sky where the Twin Towers used to stand. We marveled at how much light now escaped into the center of the city, and I wished they would just replace the much-lamented, missing architectural monstrosity with a pretty little park, which would cost a hell of a lot less money than another giant skyscraper and would be appreciated by everyone. But I know they won’t. Some greens, clearly, trump others.

I came back to Guatemala for a week of traveling around with a visiting English Language specialist named Raouf Mama, an African storyteller from Benin who is a professor at Eastern Connecticut. I was his assistant for the trip and it was an exhausting, but rewarding week, during which we traveled together to different institutions in Guatemala City so that he could give seminars and then to Quetzaltenango, where we both took part in a conference of English language teachers. He is a wise and spiritual man, and when I started to get sick again in Quetzaltenango, he simply told me, “You will be better tomorrow.” And I was.

Quetzaltenango is a nice northern town but, spoiled as I have become to temperate Guatemala City, I was freezing. And though I was traveling with guests of the Embassy, I was not staying at the same hotel. There was no heat at my hotel, I never did get the hot water to function properly in the shower and, at the end of the week, I was ready to return home. I did, however, meet a few girls in the Peace Corps in Huehuetenango, and we had a fun night out at a middle eastern restaurant. (Safe "Guatemalan" food can be amazingly hard to come by in Guatemala.)

Upon returning, I had a few days to get some things settled with work stuff - not an easy task when people here decidedly don’t return phone calls and emails. Then, I headed to Copan in Honduras for two days to see the ruins and museums there. The Copan ruins are also Mayan ruins but completely different in style. The sculptures are really intriguing. Personally, I liked the paws.

Most of the sculptures are intricate carvings of past rulers with names like Eighteen Rabbit and Smoke Jaguar. They sound like they are straight out of Alice in Wonderland, but actually they were fairly egotistical and ruthless and, during their time on the throne, it was not out of the ordinary for sacrifices and beheadings to ensue.

Back in the days of the Mayans, there was this ball-throwing game, and there are left-over stadiums to attest to its popularity. Likewise, the World Cup has taken this country by storm and teachers at my university actually cancelled classes so that their students wouldn’t have to miss watching the games on TV. (The students probably paid them off.) The fanaticism is similar. Only difference is that back then you got sacrificed at the altar if you played poorly; here, you just get booed at and hissed.

One more thing I want to say is about sexism. It's rampant.

This society often seems, on the outside, to be progressing and moving along. Many women work and are in positions of power. But on the inside, the situation of the middle class is a complete throwback to the ‘50s. There are issues of ownership, jealousy, and a general freaking-out that something is about to give.

Feminism is happening here, but no one wants to admit it. In fact, "feminism" is a really dirty word in Guatemala. If you call yourself a feminist here, it means you are akin to Loretta Bobitt. It means you want all men to die. The women are tired of the Latin machismo, but they are terrified of “feminism.” They think it makes them lesbians. Which, of course, is a fate worse than death. And if the women are terrified of feminism, then the men are shitting in their pants because they think it's evil, and threatens their very lives. But, it seems inevitable. So, it’s an interesting time to be here and watch these changes slowly come into motion.

Many of the young women of the middle and higher classes are now refusing to get married, which, of course, is not necessarily the solution, but might, for the moment, be necessary. Marriage means babies (though often pregnancy dictates marriage). The right to choose is supported by only the most radical "feminist" groups and is looked upon in disgust by the masses. But though the country swears by Christian, old-fashioned values, the divorce rate here is starting to put the US to shame. I think it is both an exciting and difficult time to be a woman here.

I asked my students to write editorials on something controversial. One of my students wanted to write an editorial on International Women’s Day. Thinking she was taking an easy way out, I said, jokingly, “Oh, there’s a subject that’s going to cause riots in the street.”

The class didn’t get my sarcasm. But, within moments, they had broken out into a raging debate. Half the students, or more, the majority of whom are women, felt this day should be outlawed. They felt it wasn’t fair to men. They thought it was radical and offensive. I was astounded that this was such a heated subject. I allowed her to write the editorial.

For me, of course, the bigger question is when is the war in Iraq going to end? I had a good friend here for the first four months of my stay. He is a young Marine who was temporarily stationed in Guatemala. Now, he is, for the second time, on duty in Iraq. We had dinner two nights before he left. Over wine and some kind of fish, the name of which I can’t recall, he started talking to me about why he joined the service in the first place.

“I never wanted to kill anybody,” he said. “I just wanted to be someone.”

My love to all of you. Please keep in touch.

Peace and Love,
Karen

PS. I want to mention that I now have Skype and anyone who has it can talk for free via the computer. If you have a high-speed internet connection, just go to http://www.skype.com/ and download the program. All you need are headphones and a mic. If you have speakers on your computer, you can use those and just plug in headphones. If you don’t have either, they sell a cheap all-in-one mic-headset at any of the regular electronic stores. IT IS SO EASY. Once you download the program, just add me as a contact. My Skype name is karenmacklin. If you have a contact name, send it to me. This is technology at its free-est and its finest. It’s a wonder of an invention. GET SKYPE! :)

Tales of Guate III: Off-Highway Robbery, Lockouts, Sloths, and Other Mischief

The cab drivers here never have change.

The biggest bill a passenger might have is 100 quetzales, which sounds like a lot but it actually amounts to about 13 bucks. The taxi drivers can't ever break it. I haven't quite made sense of this yet. They drive the taxi all day long and people are constantly paying them 25 or 30 quetzales for a ride, so youd think at the end of the day, theyd have a bunch of fives and such, but they never do. I have a friend who has a theory that they just like to hoard their sencillios, or small money, out of greed or principle. Today, a taxi driver actually took 5 quetzales less from me for a fare because I didnt have enough in small bills and he said he had no change for my larger one. I imagine, as he drove off, that he opened his glove compartment and stared with secret admiration at a hidden stash of tens wrapped tightly with a pink rubberband.

And if the cabbies never have change, then they have much in common with my luck.

Luck is one of those things that comes in big and strange doses. Bad luck, in particular, likes to make itself known and rarely trickles or sprinkles or tinkles. It just drops. And often, it just keeps dropping.

Finally when the parasites and fleas were gone and the bank account was back in order and life, for a moment, at least, was seeming somewhat stable, I decided to take my first vacation since I've been here -- off to Costa Rica to spend eight days in the rainforests and on the beaches. I planned to travel with another fellow, like myself, who was teaching in CR. We had met in DC right before our fellowships began, and had decided to spend Semana Santa the week of Easter exploring the treasures of Central America's most traveled nation. Yet, on day two, my traveling companion and I were robbed of everything we had. In her case, this included three hundred dollars in cash and two major credit cards and, in my case, equaled an unfortunately large quantity of possessions, which could be best described as some really good stuff.

We were robbed by three women, who pretended to be nurses, who broke into our hotel room, swiped all of our things, and made haste in a blue 4X4 getaway car. It was very quick and happened while we were in town. They stole the key from the front desk, and just wiped us out. No note or forwarding address. No Hey, we realized your favorite and only bathing suit is of absolutely no value to us, so we are leaving it for you folded neatly on your bed. No We've decided to leave you some toiletries in case you actually want to shower and smell good again. They just took it all, from my toothpaste to my underwear to my favorite summer clothes and sandals and jeans, and all of my prized REI gear. Years of clothing acquired just for traveling gone without a moment's notice, not to mention a new cell phone and my treasured Creative Zen Nano Plus Ipod-knock off, which Jen so lovingly programmed. If you have ever been robbed like this, you are probably familiar with the associated feelings of denial, shock, and pure mourning. It's strange, because it is all just stuff. And I really feel like I shouldnt have an attachment to stuff like such. And yet it felt like a small death somehow, followed by periods of deep sadness, attempts to fill the holes now left by this material lacking, and periodic dreams of my Nike sports sandals.

There's irony, too, in all of this. Costa Rica, also known as the land of "pura vida," is supposedly the safest country in Central America . I have been living, these past three months, in what is supposedly the most dangerous. So despite my constant minding of my security on the hard, cold streets of Guatemala City, I had to get robbed in a Costa Rican hotel, with a lock on the door, and only three other guests at the entire place who, unfortunately, had probably seen Thelma and Louise too many times.

We spent the first four of our eight glorious days in CR at the police station, the U.S. Embassy, and the godawful shopping malls of San Jose, the nation's capital, trying to replace what little we could. It was less than successful. What I did learn was that:

1) electric blue and baby pink are the only two colors of the season,
2) jeans are not considered a good fit here unless theyre giving you a massive wedgie and
3) it is morally, ethically, and fashionably unacceptable to live without sparkles, rhinestones, sequins, or cute little English-language slogans about what a naughty girl one is sprawled across ones bosom. Drowned by seas of spandex and thongs, and really bad shampoo choices, my mind was forced to drift toward strange fantasies of Crossroads, Target, H&M, and, dare I say, Macy's.

After the ordeal of reporting what had happened to the police (my Spanish is really improving -- now I know the words for fleas and thieves) and wasting money on poorly dyed threads, we spent the final four days traveling through the tourist-infested country warding off other potential thieves, crooks, and English-speaking con artists. After years of wanting to visit the land of "pura vida," I have to say that I prefer the dingy streets of Guatemala's Zona Viva. For one, though you still can get robbed in Guate, at least it will be in Spanish. And the crooks here are equal opportunity, meaning that they'll rob a local just as quickly as a non-local, perhaps because there are so few of us gringos residing here in the city.

The trip to Costa Rica wasn't a complete disaster. We did get to see the impressive Arenal volcano and do a canopy tour in Manuel Antonio, which was ridiculously fun (harnessed to a mid-air cable, you fly hundreds of feet above the forest from tree to tree). In Manuel Antonio, we stayed at a hotel that was obnoxiously expensive, I suspect, because of the added bonus of having enormous live crabs attempt to crawl through your air conditioner. Here, we also went to the National Park where I got to see a few sloth up close and personal, one even defecating, on the forest floor (apparently a rare treat.) In general, the movements of the sloth are slow as shit unless they actually have to do just that; then they really book from tree branch to tree trunk, eventually parking it on the dirt to have eight million tourists flash digital cameras in their faces while they are trying to take care of business. Sloth are not pretty creatures, but they sure can teach us a lesson about patience.

Guatemalans also teach us a lesson about patience, but in a slightly different way. Everyone here functions on what they call Chapin time, which means arriving at least 30 minutes late to everything, probably even their own births and funerals. For a teacher, it means that sometimes the class ends before it even begins. The embassy wants to know ways I can measure the progress of my students; my students want to know ways they can show up 30 minutes late, leave 20 minutes early, take a 15-minute break, and still get an A.

There is talk in the air about the possible extension of my position, but we are in a holding pattern at the moment, which is not surprising because it is the US government that would be forking over the money and we all know funds are low these days because tanks and machine guns and other big military playthings dont come cheap. I will keep you all posted, though it looks to me like either way I will be visiting the States in the June-July time period, 1) because I want to see everyone and 2) because I need to replace my backpack and my socks with the frogs and dogs and rabbits on them.

After all that has happened, you may be wondering why I am even considering an extension. The truth is that I feel, somehow, like I still havent accomplished what I set out to do here. A friend did ask me yesterday, however, if I knew the meaning of the expression "glutton for punishment." I avoided giving a direct answer.

Apartment and weather still continue to be pleasant, as do the friendships I've forged here, and I am always appreciative and wondrous of these things.

I live on the side of the building where the sun rises. That means I never get to see it set. I do, however, get to see a lot of fog , though it wafts only in the distance where the mountains claim to be, and rarely comes up and kisses my eighth floor wall of windows. Im still not sure which is better, fog hanging in the distance or clouding your immediate view. Either way, youre not seeing the whole picture, but when it lingers only in the distance, sometime you think you are.

Ellen was out here for 5 amazing days, in which we scaled an active volcano called Pacaya, which was actually roaring and shooting out bits of lava right in front of us (do not try this at home.) My mom was also here for a visit (we did NOT scale a volcano), during which we sojourned to a most remarkable luxury hotel in nearby Antigua , which was built from an old convent and contains several in-tact and totally creepy crypts right there on site. Back in Guate, on my mom's third night here, we had a particularly memorable experience as I decidedly locked us out of my apartment after an already exhausting day spent, in an effort to replace some of my belongings, pretending that we actually like to shop. (We, by the way, do not like to shop.) Embarrassing to say the very least, we were forced to spend the night in the local Marriot, which is in viewing distance of my apartment, sans toothbrushes or a change of clothes. In all fairness, it was only a week after I was robbed in CR and I was still somewhat mentally off-kilter. But then, I realize it has been some time since I have been mentally on-kilter. Perhaps if I knew what a kilter was, I could figure out how to finally climb aboard.

There is a saying here called lluve sobre mojado, which roughly means "rain over wet floor" which roughly means "enough already." The floor is wet, the rain continues damn, if only I had those Nike sport sandals.

I could go on, but I'd just as soon keep the few friends I have left, as I might need to call on you when I get thrown in jail (which just seems, somehow, like a logical progression of events.) Take care of yourselves, and keep the emails coming. I do love hearing about both the big and little events that are happening back home.

Big abrazos, Karen

Tales of Guate Part II: Fleas, Fraud and General Nonsense-Making

Dear Friends,

I'm sorry it has taken so long to write again. Things have been logistically (and somewhat emotionally) challenging and I have been waiting to wrap my brain around what's going on and make some sense of it. I finally realized that wasn't going to happen anytime soon -- the sense-making, that is -- so I am sending out this letter in hopes that someone else is making sense of something somewhere and will share some sense with me. Please.

My first two months here seemed to offer a somewhat surprising dose of bad luck, starting with the missing luggage upon my arrival, the nasty week-long Guatemalan stomach virus, the unexpected need to hit the pavement in search of a new apartment, and the online bank-account fraud that ocurred at the end of January. Then, came the fleas.

Now, honestly, I am not sure which has been worse: Dealing with the absolutely cotton-brained workers of Wells Fargos national phone bank or dealing with my apartments absurd infestation of small jumping, biting black bugs that mistook me, quite definitely, for an oversized, short-haired meow-maker.

The fleas were bad and I am still not sure where they came from. I woke every morning covered in tiny little mosquito-like bites that took weeks to resolve themselves. But, alas, no mosquitos. A rash? Bed bugs? A skin-borne parasite? And then I saw one. Ping. It was leaping off my leg. Vicious. After having the apartment fumigated three times, the little critters seem to have finally kicked off, though I still scratch habitually in paranoia. It was not my lungs first choice to stock up on carcinogens repeatedly, but flea bites are hell. It had to be done.

Wells Fargo, well that's another story. Someone named something like Joe Smith transferred a thousand dollars out of my bank account into his own. The bank saw the transaction, noted it as suspect, and proceeded to process it. Genuis. But it gets worse from there. I had to file a fraud claim, close my account, open a new account, get new checks, get new checks again because they put the wrong name and address on my first new checks, and then wait for said checks to arrive via Mom because Wells Fargos mail department cant seem to locate Central America on the map. After nearly a dozen hours spent on the phone with probably 25 different members of a distinctly unintelligible life form (humans, perhaps?), the multi-billion dollar corporation still hasn't gotten my feeble checking account sorted out. Every time I call, each person transfers me to a new department where a new person transfers me on to someone else, who tells me the last person did it wrong, and I have to hold, and yes, they realize I am calling from out of the country, but there is nothing they can do, and yes the mind-churning hold music is obligatory, sorry, and sure there is a manager but he is ouside eating a snow cone and the executive office doesn't open until five past midnight Alaska time, and will I please hold again and no, "no" is not an acceptable answer. So, after I am on hold for just over an hour, someone finally says they can fix the problem, and its like hallelujah, so I start trying to put the hairs I have torn out back into my head, though its a daunting task, and crying small, but earnest tears of joy, when oops, says a voice on the other end, the darned screen just froze, and will I just hold another moment while she reboots the ...

Then, the call drops.

Because this is Guatemala. Which Wells Fargo doesn't understand. Because they think Guatemala is like a small town outside of Houston or something.

And then my only choice is to repeat the whole scenario again, like a bad scene from Ground Hogs Day, because, no, it is impossible to call the same person back directly, because no one has direct extensions because that would just make way too much sense or, more succinctly, It just doesn't work like that here.

So between the fleas, the Wells Fargo nightmare, and a somewhat reactive supervisor, life has been a bit strained, and I have been remiss. But now the fleas are gone, I have made some very cool friends, I am spending way less time at the Embassy, and finally, I am starting to feel like I am living here. Plus, Ellen will be here in two weeks. So, things are looking up.

Work is good. I love teaching and I love what I am teaching -- language, journalism, writing -- cool stuff. My students are great, though the majority are super wealthy and a bit spoiled, which sometimes puts me in the role of mom as opposed to teacher. I have to exercise a bit more disciplinary action than is my preference (no, I havent taken the ruler out yet, but some days it crosses my mind.) Actually, the biggest problem is laziness. Lots of my private university students grew up with servants carrying their bookbags and picking up their toys; they are not used to the demands of university life and having to be accountable for themselves. But they're learning. I also have a few students from the public university and they are a whole different ball of wax. They work really hard and are more passionate about what they do. And last week, they bought me this beautiful cake for my birthday and we had a party in class. That was rockin.

My Spanish is improving by desire and necessity. I have learned many new words and expressions like fleas, dead fleas, jumping fleas, and flea bites. I also know how to say I am not going to pay that bill unless you show me all the itemized charges. Very important here.

My friends here are a mix of Americans (I finally met two that I like -- no small task when travelling abroad) and Guatemalans. People, in general are cool. I saw two plays last weekend, an ambitious and abridged version of Wicked, the musical, and a somewhat painful retelling of the film 12 Angry Men. This is not a great city for arts, at the moment. But people are trying. Most of the arts here is imported. I am going to try and see La Traviata this weekend at the National Theatre, but I believe it is an Argentinian production.

Had a birthday two weeks ago, but didn't celebrate till this past weekend; things in Guatemala are perpetually delayed, so it was really par for the course. This past weekend was fun. Apart from the plays, I spent a sunset atop an outdoor bar in Antigua, looking at the two prominent volcanoes in the distance. Also saw Memoirs of a Geisha, which did have some nice cinematography.

I just started teaching a bi-weekly class at the country's largest newspaper, so I am meeting some cool reporters and designers through that avenue. Journalism is struggling a bit here due to the last several decades of political instability, but it is, I think, starting to make a comeback.

As for yoga, I never did get to the one studio here in the city. It's just not very close to my house. I practice at home a lot, though, which means I am also practicing discipline.

What else? Oh, if anyone is going to be in Seattle or Bologna this spring, Commit Me To Memory is having small productions in both places. Strange how the life of that little play goes on.

I think that's about it. If you've made it this far, you are a true friend, really bored at work, or really interested in Guatemala City life. Whatever the reason, I love you for it. Please keep in touch and write when you have time. I have my own office now at work in the afternoons, and have better online access.

I have heard about the Californian snow, dear lord, and I send you some Guatemalan sunshine.

big, big hugs and flealess dreams,

con carino,
karen

Tales of Guate Part I: Pounding the Streets

Friends,

Hope this finds you all well. As promised, this is my first proper letter on my happenings here in Guatemala City, also known as Guate. Also, at the bottom, are the contact details of my new apartment, as many of you have been asking how to get in touch.

Guatemala City. It's hard to describe. It seems it should be something it's not. More third world but less dirty. More congested but less friendly. More dangerous but less inaccessible. Regardless of my expectations, which were fuzzy predictions to say the very least, I am here, in the midst of it and, so far, surviving.

This past week was very rough, but things are finally startling to settle down here and I am settling in. I have been sick with some nasty intestinal virus, but am finally holding down food again and gaining back some energy. I also moved this week, and started working at the University. My first apartment, as many of you know, was temporary embassy housing, which, despite the upscale sound of its semi-official labeling, was a dump. A two-story gated compound in which my drab, faux marble formica-floored, overly beige three-bedroom 1970s apartment had a window out only onto the hallway of the building, allowing everyone to see me when I frequently fell asleep on my couch because the light was too dim inside the house to simulate any kind of waking conditions. After two weeks of pounding a decidedly non-English speaking pavement, I finally found this cute little one-bedroom on the eighth floor of a pretty nice building with a doorman and everything. I got it for a decent price, too. Of course, I realized why after my first night here: Every morning at 4:30am, the heavily fuming buses come obscenely roaring down the street, cars honking like nobody's business, and car alarms going off in an almost rhythmic call and response symphony. Noisy as hell. BUT, its still a great place, AND I have an extra bed, here, too for visitors. Hint, hint.

Speaking of which, I just received my class schedule, and my two weeks off are:

April 8-16
May 13-21

Some of you have threatened to visit, and those would be good times for doing some extensive traveling away from the city. I am game for anything. Any other time is good, too, but I am committed to work in the city from M-F.

I have not actually started teaching yet, but I have been in an insane amount of important meetings. I am starting to regret the fact that I dont own a suit. The one black blazer I have (thanks, Mom) gets worn so much, I am sure I am going to wear holes in the elbows. I did assesments for my students at the rich university this week and they seem cool. Next week I go to the working class university where we are hoping to recruit some students to fill the spaces left in my classes at the other university. I'll teach five days a week at this very pretty campus, where I'll even have my own office. Coming up in the world. I'm very excited to start teaching. Im developing curriculum now for the program, which includes students ranging from very basic English speakers to very advanced English speakers, so it's challenging. I'll also be teaching seminars a few times a month at the local daily papers here.

My students want to know if I work for CNN. That's all they really know about, regarding US media. Personally, Im jonesing for a copy of the New York Times, but its hard to come by. (I hear it costs about 20 bucks at the local Marriott.)

Socially, things are way better than expected. I have met a ton of people, both Americans and Guatemalans, ranging from the Marines to folk at the Embassy (I work there, too) to local teachers of both nationalities. Guatemalans are so ridiculously cool. Warm and friendly and bright and helpful.

Robberies here are extremely high, though, so you have to have ten eyes when walking the streets, even by day. Keeps your pulse pretty high. But on the campuses, and inside stores and buildings, it' fine, so you dont need to be on alert 24-7. There's also a little bar scene a few blocks away from my house and some nice shops. I hit a Target-like jammie today and went bolistic; nothing like a little Western retail therapy.

It's hard to describe Guate. It seems in some ways very modern but then there are many poor people here and an insane amount of lawlessness. Everyone is packing. And I don't mean suitcases. There is an overabundance of weaponry here in Guatemala and apparently it's a result of our own fair country having been, once again, overly generous with sales of artillery. Apparently, people get shot on the street here for laptops. I keep mine inside the house.

Yesterday, a Guatemalan friend was in a car accident in which she was totally hit from behind and the guy refused to pay for the damages and that was it. There is no recourse people can take. There are no laws for these things, There are police EVERYWHERE, but I am not sure what they do. I have grown a new appreciation for cops back in the States. At least if someone robs you there (in most cases) a cop will protect you; here, they watch like its an event at a circus. I think they must be
getting paid off by the gangs, of which there are many. It's kind of like a mix of LA, Oakland, and Harlem back in the day. Still, people keep on with their lives, go to school and work, drive cars and take buses, and just basically stay on high alert. I mean, it sounds intense, but it's not that bad. And the bad rep that the city has keeps tourists away, which is kind of nice in some ways. The pollution, though, is killer.

There is one yoga studio in the city! I have not yet been there, but hopefully next week. I hear the classes are in English, which is cool. My Spanish is progressing slowly; basically I can get across what I need to, but I still understand only about 30% of what is being said to me. You can see how this may lead to some awkward situations. Hmmm. But I am reading my Spanish Archie comic books, and they help a lot.

So, the one thing I miss, apart from being able to eat raw vegetables, is all of you. Please let me know how you are doing. My internet access is limited at the moment, but I am working to improve that. Anyway, if you write me, I promise to write back as soon as I have time and access.

Sending big love and warm fuzzies, and abrazos fuertes,
con mucho carino,
Karen

Hello from Guatemala

Friends,

I am just getting settled in here in Central America, and starting to make contact with my peeps back in the states. Many of you have asked if I would send out periodic e-mails about my escapades in the urban jungle of Guatemala City - or Guate, as they call it here. But before I spam the immediate world with inappropriate ramblings of my sordid tales, I give you this one chance to opt out.

Meaning: please let me know if you'd rather NOT be on this e-mail list, and i'll take you off without question or return hate mail, i promise.

More soon, thinking of you all, letters and packages welcome (but nothing explosive, please).

Love,
karen