People always tell you there are things you will do in life that you will never forget. Usually, they are talking about getting married. Having your first child. Buying your first home.
Guatemala, for me, was moment after moment like that. Every day something would happen and I would think, ‘I am never going to forget this.’ And then I would pray a bit, “Please, please let me never forget this.”
Five years later, my heart still twists when I think about my time there, pushing and pulling, as if to leave my body and return to the shores of Lake Atitlan.
———-
January 4, 2010
I wake up in time to see dawn break.
We are still above the clouds. They look like a vast sea of cotton fuzz dyed scarlet and gold and purple in the morning sunlight. As I watch the sun rise regally from the clouds through the airplane’s window I cannot help but be filled with a sense of awe by the beauty of the world. I snap a picture, the first of my adventure.
Then we break through the clouds on the bottom side.
I never understood the meaning of the word “wonder” until this moment. The cloud-filtered, early morning light illuminates the mist-shrouded mountains softly, painting them an array of blues, greens, and purples. Here and there, volcanoes jut away from their jagged comrades, towering and sweeping gracefully upward into the heavens. The whole folded, rolling landscape is lit by millions of sparkling lights, glittering, as if someone has scooped the stars from the sky and strewn them across the land. In places, they have landed in piles, and those are the cities.
Guatemala City twinkles up at me from directly below: millions of diamonds gleaming in the blue morning light.
As we circle closer and the sun rises, the real Ciudad de Guatemala is revealed. The city, that from so far up looked jewel-like, is really a barely-slung-together mish mash of tin roofs and cinderblock buildings. Guatemala City is perched on what at first glance appears to be a massive plain. But the closer we get the more I see that the land is folded, as if someone has taken all of the hills in my home-state of Wisconsin and pressed them together. They are squished and squeezed, making the hills taller and the valleys more like gullies. The homes, businesses, and roads cling to the tops of these “hills” while the “valleys” are largely uninhabited and left wild with vegetation.
The runway is worn with faded paint and is lined with tin-roofed hangars.
The warmth of the air is the first thing I notice as I get off the plane. The second is the smell. Perhaps it is simple innocent excitement, but the whole place smells exotic to me. If my nose’s impression of Guatemala were a Yankee Candle, it would be called Warm-Earthy-Spices-and-Tropical-ness-mixed-with-Flowers-I-Don’t-Know-the-Name-Of.
We drive out of the city and I feel overwhelmed by the mass of humanity. I am shocked by the infiltration of American culture as we weave and twist our way through bumper-to-bumper traffic. Everyone drives wildly, speeding, cutting one another off and tailgating. Pedestrians run out in the middle of oncoming traffic. The infamous “chicken busses” wiz past, tipping and swerving as they spew black smoke from their exhaust pipes.
We pass at least five Chuck-E-Cheeses. McDonalds are everywhere. One in five buildings is painted royal blue with “Tigo” advertising on it.
I laugh out loud as I read a government issued road sign that reads, “Controllar su velocidad con amor”, which in English, translates to ‘control your speed with love’.
I never see a speed limit sign.
———
January 4, 2010
We descend into the Panchoy Valley.
Antigua is nestled between three volcanoes, Agua, Fuego, and Acatenengo. The three volcanoes soar upward, ringing the city and creating the bowl in which Antigua lies. The city glows a warm burnished red.
Red cobbled streets.
Red-orange stone buildings.
Red flowers.
The van pulls off of the highway and onto the cobblestones, shaking and bumping loudly along. I sit quietly, eyes wide, taking in the narrow and chaotic streets.
I notice the poverty. Or at least at the time, what feels to me like poverty. Later, in the small villages of the highlands, I would see real poverty.
Many buildings have no glass in the windows. Instead, windows are left open, or covered by curtains. The cobbled road we drive on needs repair, and many of the older buildings have been left in ruin. The whole place gives off an air of attempting to be modern, without quite achieving it.
People look different to me. Not just in the obvious physical way, but in their mannerisms and bearing. They looked aged, and my first impression is that these people have experienced daily hardship and persevered.
——
January 6, 2010
The climb takes us an hour and a half. An hour and a half of walking up a rocky, dusty, god-forsaken pile of volcanic stone and cursing my Wisconsin softness. As we hike higher and higher, breathing becomes more difficult and I silently thank myself for not being a smoker. In my head, I whine about how hard it is. How tired I am. Several times, I ask myself what the hell was I thinking, signing up to climb an active volcano?
But then I look up, out, and over the landscape none of those things matter.
What matters is the way the purple mountains sweep effortlessly into the clouds. The way the land folds and the volcanoes rise like a meringue swirl from the top of a lemon-meringue pie. They seem airy to me, as if they are made of light instead of earth and stone.
What matters is feeling the volcano’s heat radiate up through my shoes. And how the scorching lava heat becomes unbearable within ten feet of the flow. How the crusty black plate we walk on is cracked and crumbled.
What matters is laughing while I watch some idiot accidentally melt the bottom of his shoes off, standing too close to the flow.
Even today, after so much time has passed, I can feel the wind rip viciously, chillingly, through my hair. It blows grit in my eyes. My hair whips around wildly, stinging my face and getting caught in my mouth. I can almost feel myself crouch down, huddling in a fold in the dried, razor sharp lava, allowing my body to be warmed by the heat escaping upward through the vents.
What matters is that I can still see the sun set in a blaze of red and gold. I remember the feeling of exhilaration that flooded me as we half-ran, half-slid down the mountain to our waiting shuttle in complete darkness.
Now, so many years later, I feel the memories of that experience. I remember them so vividly, so fully, that my heart literally aches. I miss Guatemala in my soul.
For me, that is living.
———-
March 10, 2010
I look out across Lake Atitlan. The sun, falling lazily in the west, warms the left side of my face as I gaze out over the lake that I love.
From where I sit, I can see a Guatemalan woman washing her clothes in the lake. Her body bent over the washing board. She has a brick of coarse salmon-colored soap that she rubs brusquely over the clothes before pushing them back and forth roughly over the concrete board. She stands up to her knees in the shimmering green waters of the lake, washing her family’s clothing piece by piece, one at a time. I feel so touristy… otherworldly… privileged… as I sit on the rooftop of my hotel watching her work. I have never seen someone wash clothes by hand before.
She pauses for a moment, leaning her full weight forward on the washing board. Eyes closed, she lets the weariness of another long day wash over her face. I am moved by the moment, watching as the emotion so openly spills across her face, days of work etched into her features. I see strength in the set of her jaw and weariness in the lines that crease her forehead. I feel awed by her perseverance.
And then she pees in the lake. Her body shakes a bit as she does, and for a moment the strain is wiped from her face by the release. I stare, shocked, as she opens her eyes and returns to her washing, rinsing her soapy clothes in the very same water she is standing in. The very same water that seconds before she peed in. The very same water that twenty feet down the shore a middle-aged man and his son are bathing in.
Such is life here, in Guatemala: a heart-wrenching dichotomy between belleza y basura – beauty and trash.
——-
I met the most beautiful people in Guatemala. I went there expecting to volunteer, to teach, to give back. I left with the realization, that maybe, we Americans are the ones with something to learn.
I forgot about time. I learned that life should be measured by more than just what you own. I learned that finishing a conversation can indeed be more important than getting to work on time. I learned that saying good morning, afternoon, or evening is good for the spirit.
Guatemala changed me, and now, so many years later, I feel the memories of that experience. A piece of my heart is still on the shores of Lake Atitlan, and part of me will always call that place home.