Gettin’ Schooled in Guatemala

Rosa´s simple kitchen

Mi Madre en San Pedro

My tutor Ligia

My "Classroom"

Time ticks by like a sixth graders summer vacation. I know my days in San Pedro are numbered and I’m beginning to experience a subtle feeling of resistance toward leaving. I have settled into a comfortable routine in this little city resting on the shores of Lago Atitlan.

Each morning I first awaken around 4:45 a.m. to the choir practice of the resident roosters welcoming the coming sun. Unfortunately I think they forgot to adjust their watches for daylight savings because there incessant cockadoodledooing is about an hour and one half early. The end of the cockadoodledooing heralds the beginning of another choir. Voices accompanied by various instruments echo across the city, reverberating off the concrete structures to fill the entire pueblo with the songs of God. For the next two to three hours all of San Pedro’s deeply religious head to one of the many churches to pray through song.

At exactly 7:15 a.m. Rosa’s soft voice drifts on wisps of wood smoke from her kitchen; “Desayuno Jaime…”. I emerge from my room and enter the kitchen by parting the thin lacey curtain that separates Rosa’s simple cocina from the outside world. I sit opposite Domingo, Rosa’s husband, a kind man of about sixty years who was born and raised in San Pedro. Rosa grew up in Panahajel just on the other side of the lake. It is probably unlikely that either of them have ever traveled more than 75 miles from this place.

I sit down to the “American” breakfast that has been prepared just for me; pancakes, honey, yogurt, and a pile of fruit large enough to fulfill my weekly recommended intake of fiber. Domingo munches away on a handful of shrimp in some kind of soup base with a basket of freshly made tortillas. All of this food is expertly prepared on a wood fired cook top in Rosa’s tiny stand alone kitchen. Initially I had a feeling of disappointment at not being served something more “Authentic”, but then again I LOVE pancakes, and the thought of shrimp cocktail on an already sensitive morning stomach somehow does not seem that appealing.

Conversation at the table lasts for two to three minutes when my three year old child vocabulary reaches its limit. The exchange of warm glances and smiles replaces vocal communication for the rest of the meal apart from a few mmmm’s (this is good) and the four or five times I look at my food and then at Rosa remarking “me gusta mucho” in an effort to communicate how much I appreciate her excellent cooking.

Usually Domingo will ask a question that I don’t understand and during my struggle to communicate he will reassure me in a warm grandfatherly tone “un poco…un poco…un poco Jaime” (a little..alittle…baby steps James). These folks will receive about $60 US of the money I paid to attend the school, not much to us, but significant to them and their five children. Despite the money they receive, their investment in taking great care of students is obvious.

Spanish class begins at 8:00 a.m. Calling it a class may be a little misleading; conjuring images of 10-20 people sitting in a bland classroom repeating phrases like sheep baahhing together in unison. Bahh…baahh…baaahhh! Nope, in this class there is no Bah…bah and it’s anything but blah. I sit across a small table from my private tutor, Ligia, underneath a small thatched roof cabana centered in a large well manicured garden with views of the lake and volcanoes in the distance. This is just one of 15 or 20 such “classrooms”, each with a private Spanish lesson. Ligia and I spend the next four hours making teeny little baby steps into my comprehension of the Spanish language and sipping the free local coffee provided by La Escuela de Cooperativa. We often use our families as subjects of conversation, but at the end of four hours I can’t even remember the names of my own family members. “Mi hermana se llama…blank…blank…blank (what is my sister’s name? I used to know…) I begin to stare blankly and it is obvious that my brain cell has reached full capacity for the day.

1:00 off to another awesome meal with my host family, usually a meat dish with a nice pile of vegetables and, of course, MUCHAS tortillas. I’m going to get fat if I stay here too long.

Rosa and her daughter will infrequently allow me to help clean up, but after two times of me assisting I have come to conclude that they are just satisfying some need I have to contribute.

The town of San Pedro is one of about 6 towns resting on the edge of Lago Atitlan, nestled in the shadow of a ring of volcanoes. The town has approximately 13,000 residents of which something like 96% are of Mayan descent. According to the school, almost 65% of these residents are below the poverty level. This obviously does not include all of the expat Euros who own all of the touristy restaurants. Steep cobblestone streets wander through the city eventually terminating at the lake, where tens of small ferry boats wait to shuttle passengers to the other settlements around the body of water. In the same construction style as Mexico most buildings are made of concrete block with the rebar still sticking out of the upper stories. Roofs are generally corrugated steel held in place with a few nails and some concrete blocks tossed up there to keep it from flapping in the wind. I still have not figured out why they don’t cut the rebar, although in my house it does offer a convenient place to tie a clothesline. The really poor people live in adobe structures or homes with cornstalk walls and other found materials for their roofs. Almost every structure is concrete color which accentuates the dramatically colorful dress of the women and older men. Motorcycles dwarfed by our huge machines (small in the US) zip up and down the circuitous cobble streets and alleys, often with a finely dressed woman riding sidesaddle on the back of the tiny seat. This city is poor, but it has an air of tranquility especially among its adult residents.

Dinner at 6:30. Another huge meal. Tonight I tried to offer my help in the kitchen. Rosa handed me some dough and demonstrated how to make a tortilla. Simple enough…right? Lots of laughs and about a half hour later the score was Rosa:50, Jay:0. My score should probably have been negative since the only one close to completion ended up on the concrete floor. Not to worry though, it still ended up on the table! How can it look so easy??

Out to the internet café and then off to bed to once again lie awake and listen to the sound of musical prayer echoing through the streets.

The music fades as slowly drift into the dreamworld. And then it begins… The gangs emerge from the dimly lit alleys of the sleepy little city looking to defend their turf to the death. At first there is a guttural growl and then the deathmatch begins. The perros are out for blood, or at least a good shouting match! A Jets verses Sharks style gang battle ensues, each side barking and growling their fight song in turn louder and louder until one side flees with their tails between their legs, ears floppy, and their heads hung low, singing a soft song of defeat. Just like in West Side Story there seems to be lots of bark and usually no bight; these perros don’t want to mess up their groovy hairdos. Once in a while a casualty will appear on the side of the road. Apparently he fell in love with the wrong Chihuahua!

All this excitement for only $150 US…I think I’ll stay another week!

I miss you all.

Love

Jay