My eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness as we follow Diego and a small boy down a dark ally in San Pablo. I glance over my shoulder, straining my eyes, attempting to see if any silhouettes appear to be closing in behind. "?esta lejos?" (is it far?) I ask with my limited vocabulary. "No...no...esta aqui...mi casa esta aqui" (no...no...it's here...my house is here), Domingo replies, sensing that we are probably nervous about following a man we just met into the bowels of an unfamiliar village.
Danny, Jane, and I hopped in the back of a Toyota pickup a few minutes after 7p.m. with the intention of checking out the fiesta of San Pablo a little ways around the lake. Danny is my new housmate, also studying at the Coopertiva Spanish School. Jane is a student at another school in town. Along with the tuc-tucs, (little three wheeled vehicles) pickup trucks are the most common forms of a taxi. The often dilapidated trucks are outfitted with tall racks designed to maximize the number of standing passengers in the bed. In a cattle like fashion it is not uncommon for fifteen people to be crammed into one of these people haulers with a few brave souls hanging off the back. After 15 or so minutes of swerving around the slower tucs-tucs on the poorly maintained roads we arrive In San Pablo.
We stroll into the the mercado. I have not seen any rain since I have arrived, but the local street merchants have tented the entire calle with tarps anyway. Unfortunately Guatemalans don't take into account the few gringo visitors that may attend their festival, so most tarps seem to be hung to accommodate the height of a twelve year old american boy. With our heads cocked to one side and our hair scrubbing the underside of the cover we wandered through the seemingly endless string of vendors selling everything from jeans and cookware to homemade candies and tacos. The three of us tower over the Guatamaltecas like Andre the giant in a room full of fourth graders. Well maybe not that extreme, but children and some adults alike look at us like we must have been the product of some weird CIA genetic experiment to produce human lookout towers in a land of short people.
"Are you from California?" A voice emanates from the sea of dark haired heads that occasionally bounce off our shoulder's and chest's. A man of about 60 years with a kind face and a small boy in tow approaches and again asks Danny if he is from California. Weird...since I know that Danny is in fact from California. The man introduces himself as Diego, a Shamen and maker of plant medicine. He also states that he makes essential oils and invites us back to his home to have a look. Jane looks a bit nervous, but Danny and I disarmed by his age and the cute little boy immediately follow. As we enter the alley Danny turns to Jane and says something to the effect of "Don't worry, Jay and I have knives". I'm not so sure a knife would do much against a gang of short guys who commonly carry 80 pound bags of coffee or bundles of firewood with a single strap of cloth around their forehead. All I can imagine is one of these nipple-height brutes headbutting my chest, cracking my ribcage like a chef expertly splitting an egg, sending me to the ground writhing in pain with a flail chest and quickly developing pneumothorax. Not to mention, I don't think the tiny pocket knife would be much of a match against an angry machete carrying bandito whose natural grip is dangerously near crotch height. I don't know how quickly these statistics were calculated in Danny's mind, but Jane seemed a bit more at ease. I'm sure that is why he brought it up anyway.
Just as my eyes begin to adjust to the low light we arrive at the makeshift rusty steel sheetmetal door of a sad looking adobe structure. Diego pulls the door aside and we step into almost complete smoke filled darkness. My lungs burn with the thick wood smoke and I can barely make out a figure sitting next to the hot coals in a woodstove through my stinging unadjusted pupils. All three of us stand cautiously close to the door with our teary eyes straining to make sense of the space. Diego has disappeared into the darkness apparently in search of something. The sounds of movement in dark corners can barely be perceived over the explosion of fireworks at the festival about a block away.
I’m disoriented in this wildly foreign situation, but I feel no sense of danger, just an extreme sense of curiosity. In previous days I wandered through the streets of San Pedro, occasionally trying to get a peek into similar abodes as I passed by. Although the opportunity has come at an unusual time I finally have a chance to enter the world, if only for a few moments, of one of Guatemala’s poor families.
The lung searing woodsmoke appears to clear as a small flicker appears in the darkness. Diego has reappeared with a tiny candle. He beckons us into one of two tiny rooms adjacent to this main cooking area. He pushes the door in and enters the windowless chamber devoid of light apart from the tiny candle in his hand. The dark mud walls have no reflective quality and the candlelight seems to be quickly consumed by the darkness before reaching the floor or corners. Three little sets of eyes are barely visible behind a line draped with tattered clothes. The eyes approach and soon the candle illuminates the small curious faces of three small children. As my eyes once again become accustomed to this new level of darkness I can see a messy bed resting upon the dirt floor. Apparently excited to share his world Diego produces a didgeridoo and two small drums which he cannot play very well. He then points to two lambskins on the floor and picks up a larger drum frame while explaining his plans to make another larger instrument.
A clean teenage boy enters the room and holds up a scary looking mask of a woman’s face wearing a bad wig in one hand and an ornate headdress in the other, apparently part of the festivities earlier in the day.
Back in the central cooking area (hard to call it a kitchen because it’s missing a wall) we are surrounded by four small children, all very excited to me these giant foreign creatures. We crouch to greet the children and throw a gross feeling ball back and forth, occasionally losing it on the dark dirt floor. Giggles fill the air and the teeth of happy smiles glisten in the candlelight. I can now see the woman sitting by the woodstove, smiling affectionately and laughing softly while she slowly flips tortillas on its inefficient cooking surface. It’s difficult to see if there is much else aside from the flat pieces of bread.
Upon Danny’s request, Diego exits and reappears with a small bottle of oil that he has apparently made. While they are discussing the oil I take the opportunity to peek into the other chamber that joins the kitchen. Aside from another bed on the unfinished floor this room is fairly empty.
All in all this living space is smaller than my condo and there appears to be at least 7 or more people living here. The ceiling made of corrugated steel and tarp-like material is within two inches of my head. Although the smoke has cleared slightly my sinuses continue to react to the impure air. There are no signs of electricity or running water.
Despite these challenges this man is still proud to show us his home. Despite these challenges a simple ball can fill a dark room with laughter of children and adults alike. Despite these challenges, these human struggles, the smile of a happy child will illuminate the darkness…
With Love
Jay
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