Well, this is it. Tomorrow (barring further Mexican airline mishaps) my Central-American hiatus ends with a 27 hour-long return journey to the states. I can’t make the typical traveler’s claim that time has flown by, because it hasn’t. I’ve been stoked to come home for a long time now. However, during these last six weeks something happened that I wasn’t anticipating, something that will make my farewell to Oaxaca un poco difícil: Hilary Erlandson.
I prepared for and traveled to Oaxaca under the impression that I would be living solita with a host family. The thought of being immobile for awhile and getting to know one family in particular sounded excelente, especially after 10 days of bombing around Guatemala on my own. Then upon arriving in Oaxaca the señora Reyes informed me that a second chica would fly in the next day, and I got even more excited. I figured that even if this other girl and I didn't get along fantastically, it would still be nice knowing that there was someone sleeping in the bedroom next to mine every night. Then Hilary showed up, sporting un millón de freckles and a huge smile, and made the next four weeks of my life wonderful.
You won’t find an exchange student with a better attitude than Hilary. She speaks español like nobody’s business and isn’t afraid to ask questions. She loves learning, whether from a homework assignment or a menu, and wants to experience everything Oaxaca has to offer; ruins, museums and salsa clubs alike. Every time she travels somewhere new she returns bursting with stories about the history of the place she explored, the people she met, and the cool stuff she experienced. (You should have seen her describing the Anthropology Museum after her trip to the Distrito Federal; she couldn’t even stay seated she was so excited.)
And yet, in spite of her adventurous spirit, Hilary doesn’t mind spending time en casita. The two of us had some great city excursions; taking our first sip of mescal, exploring a modern art gallery, reading J.K. ROWLING and C.S. LEWIS at the Children’s Library; but I would have to say that my favorite moments with Hilary were spent hanging out in our living room in the evening. We would both come home tired, (she from salsa class, me from the library), scrounge some food, and just start talking. Our conversations would began with how our days had been, morph into us watching numerous episodes of "A Very Potter Musical" on youtube, and then inevitably lead into big life issues like loneliness and the broken nature of humanity. Our backgrounds and personalities are “different, different as can be”, and our distinct perspectives gave both of us the chance to look at these topics in a new light. But through all of our differences of opinion there was a shared theme that continued to surface: Everyone suffers, everyone matters.
My life has been relatively tribulation-free. Yes I have struggled through some nasty stuff, but I wouldn’t say that I have known grief or despair. The hope to which I cling and the joy that fill me are real, but they have yet to be truly tested. (God give me strength for that day). Hilary, on the other hand, has seen more than her fair share of heartache and has emerged from every trial with a mature attitude and a hopeful vision. She is only 19 (almost 20), but she has learned some important lessons that many folks fail to every figure out. The combination of our shared belief in the value of individuals and relationships with her awesome personality has made for a pretty nice stay in Oaxaca, nicer than I could ever have imagined. She’s something else, this kid.
lunes, 20 de septiembre de 2010
viernes, 17 de septiembre de 2010
Retreats
Oaxaca is a pleasant city, bright and vibrant and friendly. But it is, nevertheless, a city. That means traffic and vendors and gente constantly coming and going. There are parks and open areas, but they are all small and dominated by couples going at it like there’s no tomorrow. The general pace of life isn’t rushed but it’s still not peaceful, and true quietness is hard to come by. However after much exploration I have found a few calm spots, and though I have only visited each of them once I would have to say that they are my favorite thus far.
The first is the city’s Biblioteca Infantil, or Children’s Library. It is a good twenty minutes north of the centro, tucked away inside a little neighborhood with many colors and few carros. Like the Instituto it has high, white walls over the top of which poke tree branches. From the front gate a little path runs downhill, narrowing as it goes and leading past rooms stuffed with books and tiny tables and chairs. At its end it suddenly turns a corner and brings you to an open area with stone benches and tall, flowering trees. Another path takes you to a courtyard decorated with kid-made art, a playroom, a computer lab and a small theatre, but the best part of the library is here in the garden, where you can sit, listen to the birds, and watch cute niños toddle past.
The second locación is Cerro del Fortín, a hill that rises west of the city center. At its base is a long staircase, cutting up past houses and tienditas to lead to a sketchy, graffiti-ridden tunnel beneath a major highway. On the other side of the tunnel is a giant auditorium, but once you pass that and the surrounding constructions crews you hit a tree-lined, brick path that winds further up the slope. Here is where the quietness starts. The roar of traffic fades and suddenly butterflies are everywhere. Further up is the planetarium, and just a bit beyond that a tiny observatory where you are at last met with a panorama of the valley. It was good to just sit and take in this view for awhile, to see how the city extends much farther than my familiar paths through the centro, and to remember how vast the heavens are. I love looking at the Oaxacan sky from inside the city, where it wraps around adobe walls and tile roofs, but out here on the Cerro, juxtaposed against the green hills, it is even more beautiful.
The first is the city’s Biblioteca Infantil, or Children’s Library. It is a good twenty minutes north of the centro, tucked away inside a little neighborhood with many colors and few carros. Like the Instituto it has high, white walls over the top of which poke tree branches. From the front gate a little path runs downhill, narrowing as it goes and leading past rooms stuffed with books and tiny tables and chairs. At its end it suddenly turns a corner and brings you to an open area with stone benches and tall, flowering trees. Another path takes you to a courtyard decorated with kid-made art, a playroom, a computer lab and a small theatre, but the best part of the library is here in the garden, where you can sit, listen to the birds, and watch cute niños toddle past.
The second locación is Cerro del Fortín, a hill that rises west of the city center. At its base is a long staircase, cutting up past houses and tienditas to lead to a sketchy, graffiti-ridden tunnel beneath a major highway. On the other side of the tunnel is a giant auditorium, but once you pass that and the surrounding constructions crews you hit a tree-lined, brick path that winds further up the slope. Here is where the quietness starts. The roar of traffic fades and suddenly butterflies are everywhere. Further up is the planetarium, and just a bit beyond that a tiny observatory where you are at last met with a panorama of the valley. It was good to just sit and take in this view for awhile, to see how the city extends much farther than my familiar paths through the centro, and to remember how vast the heavens are. I love looking at the Oaxacan sky from inside the city, where it wraps around adobe walls and tile roofs, but out here on the Cerro, juxtaposed against the green hills, it is even more beautiful.
jueves, 16 de septiembre de 2010
¡Viva México!
It’s no secret that Mexicans like to party. Any excuse to skip work and stay up late and they’ll be there with friends, relatives, and an obscene amount of mariachi. Now imagine, if you will, this predisposition coupled with September 16, 2010, the centenary of their revolution and the bicentenary of their independence from Spain. The final product? Sheer pandemonium.
This particular celebración has been a long time in coming, and ever since the new year México has slowly and steadily become overrun with patriotism. Whether in the form of a cheesy, government-sponsored commercial or a tiny, toothpick flag embellishing your sandwich, the glory of the red, white and green is inescapable. The bloody battles and oppression that characterize this country’s history haven’t resulted in much political efficacy, but they have resulted in a shared love for the tierra natal.
The festivities for Día de la Independiencia actually begin on the 15th, the day in which Miguel Hidalgo gave the grito, the famous war cry that rallied his compatriots to throw off the Spanish yoke. The morning of the 15th found Oaxaca filled with dyed pan dulce and rackety noisemakers, not to mention free cerveza distributed by scantily-clad mamacitas that paraded the streets on the beds of beer trucks. As the day passed the roads grew thick with honking cars and the sidewalks packed with partiers, mexicanos and gringos alike, all of whom eventually made their way to the Zócalo. This was where the real action was, so I walked down with Samantha, a fellow estudiante from the Instituto, to watch. Live music blared from huge stages around the Catedral, the gazebo and every surrounding restaurant. Banners and lights adorned the Palacio de Gobierno and every other available façade. Hundreds of policías strutted around trying to look intimidating. And all over the asphalt, personas; teenagers, elderly couples, babes in arms, they were all there and they were all having fun. The plaza had a great vibe; bustling but not overcrowded, noisy but not deafening, exciting but not intimidating. Samantha and I found some familiar gringos who were people-watching from a sidewalk café and joined them until 11 pm, the hour at which Hidalgo’s grito was delivered from the main balcony of the palacio. It was at this point that I launched myself into the central fray to be surrounded by repeated cries of “¡Viva México!” As soon as the governor finished the war cry there was a massive swell of sound. People blew air horns, rattled noise-makers and screamed at the top of their lungs while showering each other with confetti and shaving cream. Then the air was filled with the national anthem and dazzling fireworks that were launched way too close to the crowd. It was quite the fiesta.
This particular celebración has been a long time in coming, and ever since the new year México has slowly and steadily become overrun with patriotism. Whether in the form of a cheesy, government-sponsored commercial or a tiny, toothpick flag embellishing your sandwich, the glory of the red, white and green is inescapable. The bloody battles and oppression that characterize this country’s history haven’t resulted in much political efficacy, but they have resulted in a shared love for the tierra natal.
The festivities for Día de la Independiencia actually begin on the 15th, the day in which Miguel Hidalgo gave the grito, the famous war cry that rallied his compatriots to throw off the Spanish yoke. The morning of the 15th found Oaxaca filled with dyed pan dulce and rackety noisemakers, not to mention free cerveza distributed by scantily-clad mamacitas that paraded the streets on the beds of beer trucks. As the day passed the roads grew thick with honking cars and the sidewalks packed with partiers, mexicanos and gringos alike, all of whom eventually made their way to the Zócalo. This was where the real action was, so I walked down with Samantha, a fellow estudiante from the Instituto, to watch. Live music blared from huge stages around the Catedral, the gazebo and every surrounding restaurant. Banners and lights adorned the Palacio de Gobierno and every other available façade. Hundreds of policías strutted around trying to look intimidating. And all over the asphalt, personas; teenagers, elderly couples, babes in arms, they were all there and they were all having fun. The plaza had a great vibe; bustling but not overcrowded, noisy but not deafening, exciting but not intimidating. Samantha and I found some familiar gringos who were people-watching from a sidewalk café and joined them until 11 pm, the hour at which Hidalgo’s grito was delivered from the main balcony of the palacio. It was at this point that I launched myself into the central fray to be surrounded by repeated cries of “¡Viva México!” As soon as the governor finished the war cry there was a massive swell of sound. People blew air horns, rattled noise-makers and screamed at the top of their lungs while showering each other with confetti and shaving cream. Then the air was filled with the national anthem and dazzling fireworks that were launched way too close to the crowd. It was quite the fiesta.
sábado, 11 de septiembre de 2010
My host abuelita
The señora Aurora Reyes, (or Mama Lola, as her relatives call her), is the host-family member whom I seen the most. She is patient, thoughtful and observant. It only took her a few days to figure out that I prefer hot water to juice in the morning, and that Hilary can handle spicy food as well as any mexicano. Almost every day she prepares a new dish for us to try, and if we aren’t sold on it she lets us put together something else instead of taking offense. Even after hosting exchange students for over 10 years she hasn’t grown tired of enunciating tricky vocabulary or correcting badly conjugated verbs.
The señora is the hub of the Reyes familia. Through her door stream kids, grandkids, neighbors, renters, and all of their compañeros, and she makes sure that each one of them leaves content, whether that means a cup of homemade chocolate oaxaqueño or a few hours of their favorite telenovela. She is sweet, yet she is also strong. Divorce, absent fathers and the occasional military invasion have taken their toll on this family, but hers continues to be the go-to house for comfort and security.
The señora is never too busy to sit down for a moment and listen to what you have to say. Nor, for that matter, does she mind sharing her own stories. Several times now, in the calm that follows the busy preparation and execution of the comida, I have had the pleasure of a lovely conversation with her and learned that she is just as mischievous as she is kind. My favorite story thus far is that of her courtship. (I wish you could hear it from her, she does a far better job and gets quite the sparkle in her eye).
The señora was one of eight children living under the thumb of a controlling father. Even hanging out unattended in the front garden was a big deal, but fortunately for Aurora that was all it took.
One afternoon a strapping, young delivery boy stops by to drop off the paper.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
This is the dialogue every day for awhile. Then one day he adds a question.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, may we be friends?”
“Oh, of course we can be friends.”
“Ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
Time passes, and then a second question arises.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have plans to go out tonight?”
“Oh no, my father doesn’t permit me to go out.”
“Oh, ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
A little more time passes, and a third question is asked.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, I do not have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
It is at this point that señorita Aurora takes matters into her own hands.
“Papá, mamá, I’ll be gone for a bit. I just need to pick up some embroidery thread.”
“Very good, hija. Don’t be gone too long.”
“I won’t.”
Or the classic.
“Papá, mamá, I’ll be gone for a bit. I’ll just be studying at so-and-so’s house for our exam next week.
“Very good, hija. Don’t be gone too long.”
“I won’t.”
Embroidery thread? Studying? Uh-huh, right.
Three years later, the strapping, young delivery boy actually enters the front garden and knocks on the door of the house. He is greeted cordially and invited inside to sip some café con leche with the familia. A few pleasantries are exchanged, and then he turns to the head of the household.
“Señor, I would like to have permission to marry your daughter, Aurora.”
“Aurora? You know Aurora?”
“Sí, señor.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Three years, señor.”
“Oh. I see.”
(Awkward pause)
“Well, when were you thinking of marrying her?”
“Three weeks from today, señor.”
“Three weeks? Don’t you think that is a little soon?”
“No, señor, I don’t think so. I have wanted to marry her for a long time.”
“Hmmm. Well then, we'd better start planning.”
41 years of marriage, 4 children, and 10 grandchildren ensue. (By the way, the first 30 years of that marriage was spent living under the same roof as the mother-in-law. Did I mention how patient the señora is?) Her husband passed away 6 years ago, and she still misses him like crazy. Not bad for a delivery boy, eh?
The señora is the hub of the Reyes familia. Through her door stream kids, grandkids, neighbors, renters, and all of their compañeros, and she makes sure that each one of them leaves content, whether that means a cup of homemade chocolate oaxaqueño or a few hours of their favorite telenovela. She is sweet, yet she is also strong. Divorce, absent fathers and the occasional military invasion have taken their toll on this family, but hers continues to be the go-to house for comfort and security.
The señora is never too busy to sit down for a moment and listen to what you have to say. Nor, for that matter, does she mind sharing her own stories. Several times now, in the calm that follows the busy preparation and execution of the comida, I have had the pleasure of a lovely conversation with her and learned that she is just as mischievous as she is kind. My favorite story thus far is that of her courtship. (I wish you could hear it from her, she does a far better job and gets quite the sparkle in her eye).
The señora was one of eight children living under the thumb of a controlling father. Even hanging out unattended in the front garden was a big deal, but fortunately for Aurora that was all it took.
One afternoon a strapping, young delivery boy stops by to drop off the paper.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
This is the dialogue every day for awhile. Then one day he adds a question.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, may we be friends?”
“Oh, of course we can be friends.”
“Ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
Time passes, and then a second question arises.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have plans to go out tonight?”
“Oh no, my father doesn’t permit me to go out.”
“Oh, ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
A little more time passes, and a third question is asked.
“Your newspaper, señorita.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. By the way, if you don’t mind me asking, do you have a boyfriend?”
“No, I do not have a boyfriend.”
“Oh, ok. Buenas tardes.”
“Buenas tardes.”
It is at this point that señorita Aurora takes matters into her own hands.
“Papá, mamá, I’ll be gone for a bit. I just need to pick up some embroidery thread.”
“Very good, hija. Don’t be gone too long.”
“I won’t.”
Or the classic.
“Papá, mamá, I’ll be gone for a bit. I’ll just be studying at so-and-so’s house for our exam next week.
“Very good, hija. Don’t be gone too long.”
“I won’t.”
Embroidery thread? Studying? Uh-huh, right.
Three years later, the strapping, young delivery boy actually enters the front garden and knocks on the door of the house. He is greeted cordially and invited inside to sip some café con leche with the familia. A few pleasantries are exchanged, and then he turns to the head of the household.
“Señor, I would like to have permission to marry your daughter, Aurora.”
“Aurora? You know Aurora?”
“Sí, señor.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Three years, señor.”
“Oh. I see.”
(Awkward pause)
“Well, when were you thinking of marrying her?”
“Three weeks from today, señor.”
“Three weeks? Don’t you think that is a little soon?”
“No, señor, I don’t think so. I have wanted to marry her for a long time.”
“Hmmm. Well then, we'd better start planning.”
41 years of marriage, 4 children, and 10 grandchildren ensue. (By the way, the first 30 years of that marriage was spent living under the same roof as the mother-in-law. Did I mention how patient the señora is?) Her husband passed away 6 years ago, and she still misses him like crazy. Not bad for a delivery boy, eh?
miércoles, 1 de septiembre de 2010
A bit of cultura oaxaqueña
Now that I am into my second week of la vida mexicana and feel a little more comfortable making my way around town, I would like to share with y’all some cultural phenomena, malas and buenas alike, that I deal with on a regular basis. Let’s begin with the malas.
El tráfico
I am sure that you have heard stories about Mexican driving habits. For example, that the brake pedal down here is actually the horn, or that the rules of the road can be summed up by Darwin’s theory of evolution. Whatever stereotypes you heard, they’re all true. Stop at a red light? Hardy har har. Pedestrians have the right-of-way? Yeah right. Mexicans drivers are always late and always merciless. Even little, old abuelitas have to trot briskly across the asphalt to avoid becoming tomorrow’s front-page feature. Hilary and I are becoming experts at cutting corners and watching each others backs at crosswalks.
El Machismo
Yet another integral and infamous element of Mexican society. I am sorry to have to repeat myself, but whatever stereotypes you heard about this topic, they’re all true. A few guys down here are courteous no matter your gender; all the rest treat girls like a piece of meat. Walking down the street, waiting in line at the supermercado, no public space is off-limits. The most frustrating part of this whole deal is the acquiescence of the local women; most any female will defend the attitude of the men as harmless, just a cultural behavior that’s always been around and shouldn’t be taken seriously. Wow, great. I’m so glad to know that not being viewed or treated as a unique human being is par for the course down here.
And now for the buenas.
El pan dulce
The literal translation of this comida is “sweet bread”, a description which fails to communicate its variety and deliciousness. Panaderías down here are omnipresent, well-stocked, and dirt cheap. If you know anything about my attitude towards bread you know that that, for me, is a fatal combination. What shall I choose this evening? The light, fluffy, cinnamon-and-honey-glazed biscuit, or the more hearty chocolate-topped, maple-flavored scone? (If only my waistline was as cool with this setup as my tastebuds).
Los catedrales
Oaxaca has un millón de cathedrals, each of them unique and impressive. My opinion of the interiors of Latin-American cathedrals has always been poor. I generally find the gilded, baroque walls and waxy shrines to be a bit grotesque, and my visits to Oaxacan cathedrals have, unfortunately, not changed that. The exteriors of these churches, however, are an entirely different matter. Their facades stretch to the sky, their intricate carvings softened by centuries of wind and rain. They each have at least one cupola, often painted in a vivid color. They stand sentinel throughout the city, breaking the skyline with their graceful arches and strong lines. My favorite is the Catedral de Santo Domingo, with its twin domes covered with beautiful blue and white tiles and its expansive plaza. These aged buildings have become for me rather sturdy and comforting landmarks during my downtown excursions.
El tráfico
I am sure that you have heard stories about Mexican driving habits. For example, that the brake pedal down here is actually the horn, or that the rules of the road can be summed up by Darwin’s theory of evolution. Whatever stereotypes you heard, they’re all true. Stop at a red light? Hardy har har. Pedestrians have the right-of-way? Yeah right. Mexicans drivers are always late and always merciless. Even little, old abuelitas have to trot briskly across the asphalt to avoid becoming tomorrow’s front-page feature. Hilary and I are becoming experts at cutting corners and watching each others backs at crosswalks.
El Machismo
Yet another integral and infamous element of Mexican society. I am sorry to have to repeat myself, but whatever stereotypes you heard about this topic, they’re all true. A few guys down here are courteous no matter your gender; all the rest treat girls like a piece of meat. Walking down the street, waiting in line at the supermercado, no public space is off-limits. The most frustrating part of this whole deal is the acquiescence of the local women; most any female will defend the attitude of the men as harmless, just a cultural behavior that’s always been around and shouldn’t be taken seriously. Wow, great. I’m so glad to know that not being viewed or treated as a unique human being is par for the course down here.
And now for the buenas.
El pan dulce
The literal translation of this comida is “sweet bread”, a description which fails to communicate its variety and deliciousness. Panaderías down here are omnipresent, well-stocked, and dirt cheap. If you know anything about my attitude towards bread you know that that, for me, is a fatal combination. What shall I choose this evening? The light, fluffy, cinnamon-and-honey-glazed biscuit, or the more hearty chocolate-topped, maple-flavored scone? (If only my waistline was as cool with this setup as my tastebuds).
Los catedrales
Oaxaca has un millón de cathedrals, each of them unique and impressive. My opinion of the interiors of Latin-American cathedrals has always been poor. I generally find the gilded, baroque walls and waxy shrines to be a bit grotesque, and my visits to Oaxacan cathedrals have, unfortunately, not changed that. The exteriors of these churches, however, are an entirely different matter. Their facades stretch to the sky, their intricate carvings softened by centuries of wind and rain. They each have at least one cupola, often painted in a vivid color. They stand sentinel throughout the city, breaking the skyline with their graceful arches and strong lines. My favorite is the Catedral de Santo Domingo, with its twin domes covered with beautiful blue and white tiles and its expansive plaza. These aged buildings have become for me rather sturdy and comforting landmarks during my downtown excursions.
viernes, 27 de agosto de 2010
México, por fin
¡Buenas tardes de Oaxaca! I just finished my first academic week in this lively, colonial city, after (one week ago) successfully navigating the border from Guatemala without losing my passport or contracting malaria. ¡Hooray!
It it nice to be living in a house again, not having to repack my mochila daily or consult my travel guides. The house is just a few blocks northeast of the Instituto Cultural de Oaxaca, a privately owned and beautifully-maintained language and culture center. It is rather small with high walls, abundant plantlife, and skads of gringos. While most estudiantes attend smaller classes, I meet with just a teacher, Joel, every school day from 9 am until 12 pm, and then join another student-teacher pair for an hour of conversación. I would have liked to have been put with at least one other peer in the mornings, but I am thankful to have Joel as a teacher because he is good at challenging me in interesting ways and helping me articulate my own ideas.
My host family has been wonderful. Its matriarch is Señora Aurora Reyes, a tiny, sweet Mexican abuela who lives with one of her four daugters and two of her sundry granddaughters. These four ladies live in the main body of the house, while Hilary, the other exchange student, and I live in a sort of adjoining apartment with our own baño and living room. Hilary is a sophomore from PLU who will study here for the whole of fall semester. She is bright-eyed, brave, and goofy, and since her arrival we have had fun practicing español and getting to know each other. We hang out with the señora and whoever else is around (amigos and relatives come and go constantly) at meal times, and walk to school together. And last night, with a group of other estudiantes, we both enjoyed our first taste of mescal, that infamous oaxequeñan licor that, when combined with mango juice, is actually palatable.
One final thought on Guatemala: Mosying around on my own was certainly interesting and let me meet some cool, fellow explorers. However, I hope that I never have to travel on my own like that again. Yes, flying solo gives you complete freedom to leave the light on as long as you like and climb all the volcanoes you want, but it also leaves you (or at least me) lonely. It takes some of the punch out of your adventures. You catch a glimpse of the full moon over Lake Atitlán and can´t turn to anyone and say ¨Look! Isn´t that beautiful?¨ Your chicken bus takes a hairpin pin on the edge of a cliff and you can´t scoot closer to anyone and say, ¨I´m sure glad my mum doesn´t know where I am right now.¨ I am not broken-hearted about being static for a while, about having the chance to actually develop some relationships. And yet, this alone time did have one, great benefit: increased awareness of the steadfast presence of God. It is humbling to think that the Creator of everything is always with me and loves me like crazy, just as He is with and loves every other soul out there struggling to figure out life.
It it nice to be living in a house again, not having to repack my mochila daily or consult my travel guides. The house is just a few blocks northeast of the Instituto Cultural de Oaxaca, a privately owned and beautifully-maintained language and culture center. It is rather small with high walls, abundant plantlife, and skads of gringos. While most estudiantes attend smaller classes, I meet with just a teacher, Joel, every school day from 9 am until 12 pm, and then join another student-teacher pair for an hour of conversación. I would have liked to have been put with at least one other peer in the mornings, but I am thankful to have Joel as a teacher because he is good at challenging me in interesting ways and helping me articulate my own ideas.
My host family has been wonderful. Its matriarch is Señora Aurora Reyes, a tiny, sweet Mexican abuela who lives with one of her four daugters and two of her sundry granddaughters. These four ladies live in the main body of the house, while Hilary, the other exchange student, and I live in a sort of adjoining apartment with our own baño and living room. Hilary is a sophomore from PLU who will study here for the whole of fall semester. She is bright-eyed, brave, and goofy, and since her arrival we have had fun practicing español and getting to know each other. We hang out with the señora and whoever else is around (amigos and relatives come and go constantly) at meal times, and walk to school together. And last night, with a group of other estudiantes, we both enjoyed our first taste of mescal, that infamous oaxequeñan licor that, when combined with mango juice, is actually palatable.
One final thought on Guatemala: Mosying around on my own was certainly interesting and let me meet some cool, fellow explorers. However, I hope that I never have to travel on my own like that again. Yes, flying solo gives you complete freedom to leave the light on as long as you like and climb all the volcanoes you want, but it also leaves you (or at least me) lonely. It takes some of the punch out of your adventures. You catch a glimpse of the full moon over Lake Atitlán and can´t turn to anyone and say ¨Look! Isn´t that beautiful?¨ Your chicken bus takes a hairpin pin on the edge of a cliff and you can´t scoot closer to anyone and say, ¨I´m sure glad my mum doesn´t know where I am right now.¨ I am not broken-hearted about being static for a while, about having the chance to actually develop some relationships. And yet, this alone time did have one, great benefit: increased awareness of the steadfast presence of God. It is humbling to think that the Creator of everything is always with me and loves me like crazy, just as He is with and loves every other soul out there struggling to figure out life.
domingo, 22 de agosto de 2010
Los Volcanes
These were the real reason that I traveled through Guatemala, these huge mountains that towered over all the towns through which I passed. Don´t get me wrong, it was great to explore urban areas, but I can only take so much of the markets and the crowds and the backfiring, honking traffic.
I first took a shot at Volcán San Pedro, the 3020 metre volcano that lies on the southwest end of the lake. My thwarted attempt at Acatenango back in Antigua had made me especially anxious to trek, so I signed up with a trusted tour company, gathered my gear, and set my alarm for 5:30 am. I don´t normally sleep well the night before a hike because of excitement. This time however, I slept great. So great that I slept through my blasted alarm till 7 am. I was furious with myself. I ran down to the tour company, but it was locked shut. However, thanks to the advice of a friendly Spaniard who had hiked San Pedro the day before, I returned at 8 am and was able to jump in with another guide and group. Disaster averted.
Besides being annoyed with the late start, I quickly became annoyed with the other trekkers, a couple my age from the UK who confessed to have hiked hardly ever. I didn´t mind climbing at a slower pace, (I myself was a spectacular caboose just a few days later), but I did mind the increased whining from the girl, who didn´t like how hard the trek was. San Pedro is 3,020 metres tall, and the average ascent is 3-4 hours. How you sign up for an excursion like that and expect it to be a stroll along the Thames, I have no idea.
The moaning and groaning was obnoxious, but the hike itself was good. After climbing the peripheral highway for a bit, we hit the park entrance and made our way through coffee trees and corn fields, occasionally bidding ´Buenos días´ to the local farmers in their plaid shirts and galoshes. The trail became steeper as we passed into dense forest, shaded from the sun which at that point was in full swing. After 3 ½ hours, and many moans and groans, we hit the final ridge. The summit itself was small, a space perhaps 10 yards wide crowned with boulders. There were two overflowing garbage bins on the south side that really added to the ambience, but the view was spectacular. At first we were completely shrouded in mist, but after waiting a bit we felt some warmth from the sun, and literally in seconds the clouds disappeared to reveal the lake shining below. Dark blue against dark green hills, and above both of those a sky as blue as a robin´s egg. The same waxing and waning of clouds occurred behind us as well, sometimes revealing the other two summits of San Pedro and the mountain chains far behind them. It was a little noisy up there thanks to a group of Italians that beat us to the top, but it was still good to be up high, away from the hubbub below.
My second hike was out of a dismal city called Quetzaltenango, where I snagged a trip to Volcán Santa María at the last minute with a Frenchman named Robin and a guide named Carlos, a Guatemalan who could have been a character out of Fern Gulley. He had long hair, showed us different plants used for traditional medicine, and spoke frequently and cariñosamente about ¨Nature¨.
I didn´t think I would luck out again if I slept through my alarm, so I set two alarms and was ready for my ride to the trailhead at 5 am. And yes, in case you were wondering, this is trip where I was the spectacular caboose. Both Carlos, who climbs all kinds of peaks in Central America, and Robin, who prances through the Pyrenees on a regular basis, could have run up the mountain. I tried to keep pace with them, but soon realized that I could either keep that up and fall over dead, or climb at a snail´s pace and actually see the summit. I chose the latter, and holy cow am I glad that I did. The initial ascent was similar to San Pedro, through fields and coffee trees, and then we jumped into the forest and wound steadily up along rocky, slippery terrain. As we approached the last quarter of the climb I began to see lupines, those wonderful, bright purple flowers that adorn so many trails in the Northwest, and when I finally finished the trek I found the summit´s sides covered with them. Santa María´s peak was extensive, deserted, and also mist-shrouded, but once again it parted for us to reveal a panorama of cloud fields, other mountain peaks, and even the Pacific Ocean to the far south. We had an hour to walk about, rest on the rocks, and just take in the beauty. It was so still up there, with the air so chilly and clean, and the earth 3700 metres below.
I first took a shot at Volcán San Pedro, the 3020 metre volcano that lies on the southwest end of the lake. My thwarted attempt at Acatenango back in Antigua had made me especially anxious to trek, so I signed up with a trusted tour company, gathered my gear, and set my alarm for 5:30 am. I don´t normally sleep well the night before a hike because of excitement. This time however, I slept great. So great that I slept through my blasted alarm till 7 am. I was furious with myself. I ran down to the tour company, but it was locked shut. However, thanks to the advice of a friendly Spaniard who had hiked San Pedro the day before, I returned at 8 am and was able to jump in with another guide and group. Disaster averted.
Besides being annoyed with the late start, I quickly became annoyed with the other trekkers, a couple my age from the UK who confessed to have hiked hardly ever. I didn´t mind climbing at a slower pace, (I myself was a spectacular caboose just a few days later), but I did mind the increased whining from the girl, who didn´t like how hard the trek was. San Pedro is 3,020 metres tall, and the average ascent is 3-4 hours. How you sign up for an excursion like that and expect it to be a stroll along the Thames, I have no idea.
The moaning and groaning was obnoxious, but the hike itself was good. After climbing the peripheral highway for a bit, we hit the park entrance and made our way through coffee trees and corn fields, occasionally bidding ´Buenos días´ to the local farmers in their plaid shirts and galoshes. The trail became steeper as we passed into dense forest, shaded from the sun which at that point was in full swing. After 3 ½ hours, and many moans and groans, we hit the final ridge. The summit itself was small, a space perhaps 10 yards wide crowned with boulders. There were two overflowing garbage bins on the south side that really added to the ambience, but the view was spectacular. At first we were completely shrouded in mist, but after waiting a bit we felt some warmth from the sun, and literally in seconds the clouds disappeared to reveal the lake shining below. Dark blue against dark green hills, and above both of those a sky as blue as a robin´s egg. The same waxing and waning of clouds occurred behind us as well, sometimes revealing the other two summits of San Pedro and the mountain chains far behind them. It was a little noisy up there thanks to a group of Italians that beat us to the top, but it was still good to be up high, away from the hubbub below.
My second hike was out of a dismal city called Quetzaltenango, where I snagged a trip to Volcán Santa María at the last minute with a Frenchman named Robin and a guide named Carlos, a Guatemalan who could have been a character out of Fern Gulley. He had long hair, showed us different plants used for traditional medicine, and spoke frequently and cariñosamente about ¨Nature¨.
I didn´t think I would luck out again if I slept through my alarm, so I set two alarms and was ready for my ride to the trailhead at 5 am. And yes, in case you were wondering, this is trip where I was the spectacular caboose. Both Carlos, who climbs all kinds of peaks in Central America, and Robin, who prances through the Pyrenees on a regular basis, could have run up the mountain. I tried to keep pace with them, but soon realized that I could either keep that up and fall over dead, or climb at a snail´s pace and actually see the summit. I chose the latter, and holy cow am I glad that I did. The initial ascent was similar to San Pedro, through fields and coffee trees, and then we jumped into the forest and wound steadily up along rocky, slippery terrain. As we approached the last quarter of the climb I began to see lupines, those wonderful, bright purple flowers that adorn so many trails in the Northwest, and when I finally finished the trek I found the summit´s sides covered with them. Santa María´s peak was extensive, deserted, and also mist-shrouded, but once again it parted for us to reveal a panorama of cloud fields, other mountain peaks, and even the Pacific Ocean to the far south. We had an hour to walk about, rest on the rocks, and just take in the beauty. It was so still up there, with the air so chilly and clean, and the earth 3700 metres below.
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