going home

The last week has been full of goodbyes, in words and in heart.  My last washing of dishes on the roof where we lived, my last view of the green hills, my last afternoon tea time with the 7 and 10 year old girls I lived with.  Presentations of my preliminary findings with the staff, preparing me for the work ahead as I write my final report and preparing them to receive it in August.  Lunches and breakfasts with the handful of people who became friends here in Nebaj.

There is something about leaving a place that brings to a point all the sweetness it has accumulated over the weeks.  My heart is full with the grace that was given - my grandaughterly friendship with Siliva and the cake and coffee she always gave me, friendship with Maria that will hopefully endure the distance, the extravagant hospitality of the 7 year old I lived with over tea and cookies every day over work, the abundant generosity of families in communities nestled in these hills.

Yet my heart is even more full to be going home - to the one I love most and life together, to family and friends, and the beauty of full spring in the Northwest.  It is time to be again with Steven, to create stories and life together with you all. 

The months ahead will be full of reflection of this time as I listen to an analyze my interviews, ponder and write about the truths that can be found in them.  Yet they will also hold dinners with my husband when he comes back from his work in the Missions with stories and photos, running on country roads, getting to know the people of Whitefish...come and visit us, we'd love to have you.

maize

I'm hoping to plant some corn when I return home, let it take root and become a way for us to enter into the connection between life and earth that is so explicit here.  Here, where every member of the family participates in bringing their own sustenance from the land - planting maize, shelling frijol, shooing chickens from the kitchen, grinding chili for soup, even the five year old who carries the corn masa on her head back from the mill to make tortillas for lunch.  There is a beautiful clarity of our dependence on the earth in this way of life, something that is easy to forget in the land of supermarkets and parking lots and prepackaged food.

It is not an easy way of life.  There is much that cannot be romanticized - constant labor, the potential for sickness or calamity to shatter the delicate balance of life, the inability to send your children to school .  There is a reason these communities who have historically grown maize and frijol and a few vegetables are eager for the chance to grow snow peas for the supermarkets of London, a reason they replace their plots of maize with coffee plants - "pista*" it is called, "cash."  When I ask them why they plant these crops, the answer is so obvious to the tellers - there are not many choices in how you will make your living here, no one asking you in grade one if you want to be a doctor or a teacher or a lawyer.  Export is a way out of the day-to-day subsistence they have endured for too many years.

So I leave with paradoxes - I who am so smitten with the local consumption of food, faced with the reality that export is the best option for a step out of poverty for these communities.  Yet these families continue to cultivate their own food sources, clear the fields from where their three meals a day are harvested.  I believe there is something to be learned in this, even as markets make our economic interdependence inevitable.  A posture of reverence for our dependence on the land, a humility to the earth as a partner in life, endowed also with the Image of God and essential to our living and working and waking.  May my life as I return to the corner of the earth I call home reflect this more every season...

*is this even how you spell this word? not a dictionary use...

history

I haven't yet written about the history of this place, the "Ixil Triangle."  I've tried to let this blog be a reflection of our experiences, rather than a teaching forum.  If you didn't know about it, you could spend a few days in Nebaj and not realize that 25 years ago the hills surrounding this town were killing fields, one of the most heavily affected regions during the armed conflict and the the genocide of indigenous people by the Guatemalan army during the early 1980s.

...Until you start to ask some questions, about families and grandparents and schooling.  All the sudden in the middle of an interview it stares me in the face - "my parents were killed by the army and so there wasn't anyone to pay for me to go to school," "my two children died of hunger while we were hiding in the mountains," "we moved to Cotzal because our village was burned..."  Not one person I have met in Guatemala does not have a family member who died during the conflict.

Some of you know the story well - the 36 year conflict, the "scorched earth" strategy against Mayan communities, the support of the US government for these "anti-communist" strategies.  And it is a history of oppression that goes back further - posession of lands, dictatorships, colonization, conquest. 

Yet life and the resilience of humanity goes on here.  People have children and raise them, buy and sell at the market, continue to grow their corn and beans on the hills.  It is hard to hold all at once the the heaps of vegetables in the market, the corn stalks a few weeks along, the women doing laundry in the creek, the blaring of tuk-tuk taxis in Nebaj with the real history of violence on these same streets and hillsides.  But the massacres, "disappearances," betrayals, refugee camps, are just as much a part of the story as the beauty and joy I have been privileged to witness here. 

Multmann writes that our collective patterns of living only become part of our awareness as the victims make the perpectrators aware of what they have done.  As an American, then, it is part of my "collective self-experience" to listen to these testimonies of the years of violence that my government supported.  To keep listening to the stories about CAFTA and deportations and the failure of U.S. foreign aid projects.  For in the listening, the "deliverance from delusion to reality comes."  We see the blood on our hands.  And then we also hear the utter grace poured out, humbling me as these same communities tell me "welcome" and "come and eat with us."

 (photo stolen from blog of german volunteer /benschilling.blogspot.com from Dia de las Victimas 2008 - we didn't take photos of this day in February this year, but it looked much the same...)

up north

to see the work Steven has been doing in Montana, check out "recently added" at 

http://www.stevengnamphotography.com/

pigs and ponderings

I showed her this photo, and she beamed with pride at "mis coches!" (my pigs!).  She couldn't get enough of it, kept looking at it and laughing with wrinkles that lit up her whole face.  "The pigs have grown since then," she tells me.

As we sat and talked, she tells me about her harvest of beans and chiles and tomatoes that she was selling in the market down the road just this morning. Shows me the peach tree in the yard that is hers, her very own, and the other that is her husband's.  Her daughter comes to whisper something in her ear, and she pulls her coin purse out of her belt and gives the six year old a quetzale.  "This is it," I kept thinking to myself, "this is exactly what microcredit should do."  Starting with a loan worth $62.50 about 6 years ago, this woman has pieced together enough crops and harvests and animals to provide an income that allows her to pull her own money from her skirt for her children, give to their schooling, and fill her day with creative energy that is valued now by her husband.

In a region where many of the women I talk to never hold money for themselves, much less bring any income into the home, she is an exception.  Why this worked for her, while in many cases the women who receive these loans hand it right to their husbands, is one of the questions I'm trying to answer through the interviews I've been conducting the past month.  Studies on microcredit programs say that when women have income, money is invested more in the family and her ability to contribute to household decisions increases, so it seems a worthwhile goal.  Yet promoting women's income here is complex, as the family is the safety net that replaces social security and savings and the role of the man as the jefe of the home is deeply rooted in how families function.

It is a complex web for a white girl to step into - a country with one of the highest femicide rates in the world, where domestic violence is rampant, where most of the women I talk to are illiterate and don't speak Spanish, where my privilege of education, waiting until I am older to have children, and having skills to get a job are unthinkable options.  Yet the language I learned of Western feminism is an ill-fitting shoe here; the language that will bring women into places where they raise their own pigs and sell their own peaches at the market must come from their own mouths, their own discoveries, their own dreams.  Here in the Ixil it is a language slow to develop, but it is there, an underpinning flow that is creating women's committees and banks and sending at least some daughters to school.  A long way to go, for me and for them, in learning this language that will bring women into themselves, the fullness of life they are made for...but yesterday I heard it, heard it in the joy at some pigs. 

hospitality

She let me have her bed for the week I stayed with them, even gave me her shawl to use as a pillow.  The first night after dinner around the stove, they urged me to go first in the temazcal, their sauna bath, before my sleepy eyes fell asleep.  Isabela mixed the water, hot and cold, for me, so that I wouldn't burn myself, inviting me into the most intimate place of the home and family, where they ease their bones and wash their bodies and give birth to their children.  Each night I was a quiet witness to the affection between this mother and father, their six children and grandson - not understanding a word of their banter, but seeing clearly the laughter and enjoyment as Isabela put her feet up on the stove and lingered with her sons and daughters.  She even ate the misshapen and lumpy tortillas I made. 

There was so much light in this home that only has a candle after dark, among this family who marveled at my headlamp.  It was my first week alone here in Guatemala, only not alone at all, falling asleep each night with the warmth of this family's generosity filling my chest.  They were awake again at 5am early light, he to the fields, she to the weaving, her daughters to the kitchen.  I was supposed to pay for my stay, as it was arranged as part of my work, but Isabela refused to take anything from me when I left. 

Hospitality - transcending culture, material wealth, language.  They took in a stranger, and loved me.  So often I have been the one with a home; to be the sojourner, to receive the gift of hospitality - I am humbled by the abundance of their generosity, startled by the power of hospitality to make way in me for peace and the love of God.

changes come...

It is about time to share with you all the changes that have been brewing for us the last few weeks.  The decisions we've made represent weeks of thought, prayer, and conversation, which for the sake of distance we haven't been able to share with all of you.  But the end result is that the plan for our time in Guatemala has changed.  Many of you asked when we left how long we would be here, what we were doing, and received the fairly vague reply that was as much as we knew from that vantage point.

Several weeks ago, some work opportunities came up for Steven in Montana, starting a process of re-evaluation for us.  In the end, we realized several things - we came to Guatemala for me to do fieldwork and a project for Agros, not because this is where we eventually want to call home.  We decided that for the longer vision of life we have, it would be best if Steven did not lose another season of work in the mountains of Montana...and in general he has been too long away from that home.  After a supportive response from Agros, we decided that we would shorten our time here so that I could accomplish the fieldwork for my project, but that I could then return to the states to complete the analysis and writing of the report for Agros and be near my husband for the summer months.

So...Steven is returning stateside this week to begin preparations for the summer season.  You might see him for a brief second in Seattle, but mostly he will be in Western Montana.  I'll be here in the Ixil a bit longer to finish interviews before returning to live in Whitefish with Steven for the summer.  In some ways these are big changes from our initial vision, yet in other ways we feel like this reshaping of our time here in Guatemala flows clearly with the rest of our life.  If you want to explore the wildlands of Western Montana this summer, or join me in a little home in Whitefish for writing days, we'd love to see you...

the village

Her hands smoothly spread the corn masa into the big leaves, preparing the traditional boxbole.  Her aunt stirred the coffee beans that roasted on the iron grate above the fire.  As a younger member of the communal bank, her ideas came quietly, but they were strong.  The pigs and chickens that she had bought with her loan were clearly a source of pride.  We spent an hour on little wooden chairs in her kitchen, but the whole time my questions and Steven’s camera didn’t pause her work.

“Why are you coming here to talk to us?” one woman asked.  “Well,” I said, “I think because many of the women here don’t speak Spanish, sometimes the men speak more, and Agros doesn’t get to hear your ideas.  I think it is important to know what you think about the projects and your lives here, so I’ve come to talk with you.”  My guess at the lack of voice for women here must have resonated, because with this vision Catarina, a community leader and our translator into Ixil, became my emissary, just as passionate about this project as I was.  She guided us from house to house, explaining at each doorway that we had come to do interviews and may we have a few minutes to sit with them?  She shared this idea with each woman, and they nodded in agreement. 

We had arrived in the village a few days before.  After eight weeks of preparations - visiting villages, adjusting my project design, and preparing interviews – Steven and I were dropped off in this Ixil community a few hours from Nebaj along a rutted dirt road that hugs the side of a narrow gorge.  We knew very little about how anything would happen once we arrived, but over the next few hours, guided by a community leader, a woman was found to be our translator from Spanish to Ixil, a family agreed to feed us meals, and we pushed together the exam tables in the clinic to make a bed where we would spend the next few nights.  The next morning we ate beans and eggs and tortilla with the family, and started towards the house of the president of the Women’s Communal Bank, the first interview where I would ask about the bank, women's leadership, land ownership, and family relationships.  All with the hope to understand how these are seen from their own eyes...

We left each house full – of the words that gradually created a clearer picture of the life of the women, of bananas or atol or lime juice people warmly offered, and images of the beautiful mundane that makes up daily existence in this village.  Mostly we are grateful – that this community was willing to let us into their homes, shared their stories with us, and told us we too were just children of God like them.  Though our time was brief, we got a glimpse of living – families laughing, meals prepared, a days work – though so different in form, the very same substance of human existence lived the world over. 

semana santa

In Guatemala, Semana Santa - Holy Week - is a big event.  The whole country stops for a few days while rich people escape Guatemala City, the faithful Catholics organize processions, and everyone from rich to poor gathers with family.  We decided to taste it all...

The Cayes of Belize, off the coast of Guatemala.  Under that water were lots of fish and coral, which we flipped around with snorkels exploring for two days.  Pure joy!  Sun and color and swimming.  And for dinner, the fried fish our boat captain caught by hand line...

Waiting on this strip of sand for the tropical storm coming our way.  Shared a bunk in a bungalow with the most hospitable Italian family for the night after the drenching rains and wind knocked our tent right over.

Frigate birds turn our eyes skyward where the Rio Dulce meets the Caribbean Sea...elusive grace.  The abundance of water, jungle, and sun slows life on this side of Guatemala...from the easy-going Garifuna town of Livingston to the quiet Mayan villages hugging the riverbank...all except the enormous vacations homes and their yacht-driving owners.

Two days kayaking the gorge of Rio Dulce - trying to get close to the flighty egrets, twisting back into the jungle on an eerily still river with birds and wind making our presence seem very small, waving to the fishermen in their wooden dugout cayucos, and feasting at the lodge at the of the day.  Perhaps the truest jungle moment came when we found a hand-sized tarantula in the bathroom one night, seeking shelter from the tropical rain...

Wandering the streets of Antigua to see the art each family makes in the streets, preparing the ground for the processions that will weave their way through the city from 6pm until 4am, carrying the Virgin and Christ on a pilgrimage.  Never before had we seen such a tranquil and joyful gathering of so many Guatemalans...something between a carnival and a deeply religious gathering.

Creating beauty, the whole family, that will stand for a few hours before the night comes.  The streets are filled with families, warmth, shared joy...the generous sharing of ephemeral beauty.

Steven has more photos of Guatemala on his website...www.stevengnamphotography.com...

Small things.

Today the second-grader we live with braided my hair.  It wasn’t until then that I realized how much I missed being touched – being new here, there aren’t the hugs and closeness I’m used to at home among family and friends.  Having this seven year old chat my ears off about Christmas and New Years and her family traditions as she combed and braided up my hair, I felt at home and safe in a way I had not yet experienced here.

We cooked our first meal with garlic tonight.  The smell of it was heavenly.  Hadn’t been able to find it in the market until yesterday, when the candle-man had some braids tucked among the paraffin.  Delicious…

My shower was hot.  Really hot.  And since it is usually not quite warm enough, I endured some scalding for the pure joy of it.  Never know what you’ll get.

A good evening in Guatemala…

a meeting

Doña Maria invited us to eat lunch with her, in her family kitchen. Hot potato and corn stew, scooped from our bowls by tamalitos- so hot it made my face sweat and Steven loved it. Then we followed her into the rest of her home, where the wooden-plank beds and a bench were at once bedroom and sitting room. Her house is one of the most cared-for we’ve seen, cinderblock with a real cement floor, and pictures from a calendar thoughtfully stuck up on the wall. Through the window into the kitchen, Maria shooed the chicken from the bowl of corn.

We borrowed the room for our meeting, and more than a dozen women gathered around. I began again the same introduction I had been using for the last week, that we were volunteers here, and I was coming to talk to women to see how Agros projects were affecting them and how they might support them more. Steven was hoping to take some photos of their projects. And then my questions began – Why do they join the communal banks? Have they ever owned land before Agros came? What do they hope for their children? Each answer is something so basic to their daily life, you can sense they are not accustomed to having to explain. Yet at the end, a moment of magic. I ask them if my questions are strange, and they tell me that they like it, they are glad to be reminded of what they want for their children, education and to be able to have work.

And then, before we left, we took a walk to see the work these women were doing to bring income into the home, some with the help of an Agros micro-loan and others on their own. Outside of the meeting, showing us the work of their hands, their capacity and beauty and pride came out…but just look below and you’ll see. As usual, Steven’s work is better than words…

one month in guatemala...

eggs, beans, and tortillas
spanish grammar, ixil words
mango season
roosters
communal banks and weaving projects
flowing lava
the snow pea harvest
interviews and transcribing them
chicken buses and microbuses

Coffee and Volcanoes

 Shade grown coffee

Coffee Flowers

Coffee Berries

Women tending drying coffee

coffee drying

 Smoke Ring, Vol Pacaya

Kitchen

Shafts of light filter between the wooden planks that make up the walls of this square room.  We come in to warm our tortillas on her fire, to gather some heat away from the rain outside.  We crouch on low stools near the blaze on her earthen floor.  While we sit in silence, the cat and chickens and children, the pat, pat, pat as she hand makes tortillas from her corn masa (dough) seem a part of the quiet.  She turns the tortillas on her iron cooking slab over the fire, adds an egg to small pan on the slab that serves as her stove, pours the coffee from a scalding earthen pot  - all with her bare hand, accustomed to the heat.  Through the slats in the walls the children’s eyes stare inquisitively – as soon as I look they run away.  They tell us the children are afraid because they think we have come to vaccinate them.  She serves the beans and eggs and tortillas, throws some maize to the chickens, and feeds the baby on her breast in the corner.

The next day, another kitchen, another fire.  The family this time, gathered around.  We ask for a photo, the parents are glad and you can see their pride as they gather their children around them.  They show us pacaya, and how to eat it.  They laugh with us at our ignorance.

We tread lightly, entering into the intimate place – kitchen, hearth.  Invited, but still strangers.  We leave hushed, hardly believing where we have been.  Only because we come with the community organizer from Agros.

Later we talk with the women in the schoolhouse.  We talk of their challenges, their committee, take a tour of their projects.  But it was the kitchen where we could share with them.  We are hopeful to spend time in one or two communities as our project goes forward, to share more meals in the kitchen.

Nebaj

The last few weeks have seemed to be half a year, so much has entered our experience. It is amazing to realize how many hours I spent in college reading and reading about this place and this people, and in less than two weeks among them we have learned more than in a year and a half. Of how they live, of how to walk and move here. Nebaj is a cacophonous town of around 20,000 – construction, roosters, buses, trucks, dogs, vendors, music – neither developed nor rural, a chaotic convergence of the two. We are learning to walk the streets here, to buy papaya and tortillas and bananos at the market. We even have a little room in a house we can call our home for now – with very peach-colored walls.

Nebaj is all at once beautiful – the folds of the green mountains that hold it in, the ornate weaving of the women’s huipiles and headdresses – and difficult – the garbage everywhere on the streets, the rank pollution of the stream through town, the constant noise. We are certainly at the end of the road for travelers – everywhere we go out from here we are the only white faces we see, something that is hard to forget with the calls of “Hello! Gringo!” from all the curious children we pass by.

We are reminded in our daily existence that we are visiting, that no matter how much we may come to understand this place and its people, we still will be always marked as foreigners. We realize our longing for a place to call home…I suppose that is what we are always searching for in this life. Now is a season to know in our bones that we are strangers in this world…

 

Smoke from morning cooking fires settles in Nebaj

Nebaj, Quiche, Guatemala

  

road to Acul