We are pleased to report that Elvis is alive and well down in Guatemala. In fact, he was the entertainment for our "graduacion" from our Spanish school last night. Unfortunately, we didn't have our camera handy, but the hair, the sideburns, and the girth were all there, along with a reasonable facsimile of the voice (especially if one takes into account the inevitable toll of highland living-- and the fact that the words were in Spanish). It seems that the "Vez" lived out the 80s in the Maya highlands before being drawn back into civilization by the not-fully-requited (?) lure of the stage. Last week, the King was wearing what appeared to be faux-snakeskin pants, but he topped that this week with a full-on cape featuring a bold stars-and-stripes motif. We gave him a shout-out in our speech, which followed a translation of the Vagina Monologues (we considered calling ours the "Monologo del Pene" before deciding to allude to such a possibility more subtly). He emerged to cheers as we did my best to put an Elvis lilt on our "Muchas gracias, senor."
P.S. We are prepared to accept that he was not the real Elvis-- he may well have been his twin Jessie, who we were never really convinced wasn't out there somewhere anyway.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
¡?=)(/&/%&&%##"!_:;[Ѩ*
Just trying to figure out where the symbols are on this damn computer! (theres one!)
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Gravestoned
It started out with a trip north to the town of Nebaj, a traditional Maya town ravaged by mass killings by the US-supported military in the 1980s. In the colorful graveyards you could find entire families that had been wiped out on a single day, at least in 1982 when citizens accused of aiding the guerrillas were hacked down with machetes in front of the entire village.
We stayed at a rickety establishment called "Popi's Hostel"; when we asked the owner if he was Popi, he replied that we could call him Doug. He gave a vague outline of his life trajectory which had taken him from the States through Belize, El Salvador, and some other Central American republics before landing him in Guatemala-- it was only later that we learned that he had been a mercenary in various guerrilla wars before settling into the quiet life he now leads. Whatever his political leanings, the pasta dinner and apple pie a la mode marked a good send-off from (relative) civilization.
It was then up the steep (and muddy) trails north of town. We had a somewhat inauspicious beginning, as our sneakers soon became soaked and laden with mud and then we were confronted by a descending villager demanding quetzals (money) and/or food, with the explanation that "the gods were looking down on us." When we explained that we had neither (as we were going to eat with a family that evening), and wished him "buena suerte" (good luck), he merely answered "no hay"(there isn't any). Fortunately, this was the only real "accosting" (of this type, at least) that we encountered for the rest of the trip.
Soon after, we paused in a meadow to go over the history-- and effects-- of the civil war on the region. As the role of "civil patrols" was being explained, a local farmer walked up the path and proceeded to talk about the 14 years (?) he had been conscripted to walk the surrounding hills searching for guerrillas, all the while having to neglect his farm and family. Between the guerrillas and civil patrollers, there is virtually no fauna left in the surrounding woods.
Interestingly enough, we noticed at least one wall in Nebaj promoting the candidacy of Rios Montt for "presidente," despite the fact that he had been the dictator who presided over many of the worst years and had formed these very (un)civil patrols. The affects of time and/or ignorance are strong here; Montt was elected to Congress in September, and the front-runner and expected victor, Otto Perez Molina, of the "Patriotista" party, was also a military leader during that time whose campaign slogan is "Mano Dura" (Strong Hand), accompanied by a picture of a clenched fist.
Then it was down into the town of Acoma, which had been re-constructed in the 1980s and populated with 2 different ethnic groups (at least one of whom had been removed from their own village), both as a means of keeping an eye on them and showing the outside world the "benevolence" of the ruling regime.
We then stopped at a cheese "factory" on the outskirts of town, run by a 3rd generation Italian family. We had some fresh lemonade while looking across the surrounding valley. The cheese, along with tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, and carrots (?), were to make up the sandwiches that constituted lunch for the next 3 days-- the
combination of aging on both us and the cheese made for better and better lunch breaks each day.
Then it was up and on through another more remote town, where the children emerged from the cornfields to line the side of the trail and watch the hunch-backed/packed gringos march through town. Amidst the waving and holas, one little girl reached out to touch our hand. We resisted the urge to say that we came as liberators, not colonizers.
We spent the night in a tiny mountainside hamlet that had once been a main (undeveloped) base of the guerrillas-- as we trudged higher and higher, it was easy to see why they had been hard to find.
[in the interest of time/space/attention spans, we will pause here and attempt to conflate and fast-forward through the ensuing days]
We stayed at a rickety establishment called "Popi's Hostel"; when we asked the owner if he was Popi, he replied that we could call him Doug. He gave a vague outline of his life trajectory which had taken him from the States through Belize, El Salvador, and some other Central American republics before landing him in Guatemala-- it was only later that we learned that he had been a mercenary in various guerrilla wars before settling into the quiet life he now leads. Whatever his political leanings, the pasta dinner and apple pie a la mode marked a good send-off from (relative) civilization.
It was then up the steep (and muddy) trails north of town. We had a somewhat inauspicious beginning, as our sneakers soon became soaked and laden with mud and then we were confronted by a descending villager demanding quetzals (money) and/or food, with the explanation that "the gods were looking down on us." When we explained that we had neither (as we were going to eat with a family that evening), and wished him "buena suerte" (good luck), he merely answered "no hay"(there isn't any). Fortunately, this was the only real "accosting" (of this type, at least) that we encountered for the rest of the trip.
Soon after, we paused in a meadow to go over the history-- and effects-- of the civil war on the region. As the role of "civil patrols" was being explained, a local farmer walked up the path and proceeded to talk about the 14 years (?) he had been conscripted to walk the surrounding hills searching for guerrillas, all the while having to neglect his farm and family. Between the guerrillas and civil patrollers, there is virtually no fauna left in the surrounding woods.
Interestingly enough, we noticed at least one wall in Nebaj promoting the candidacy of Rios Montt for "presidente," despite the fact that he had been the dictator who presided over many of the worst years and had formed these very (un)civil patrols. The affects of time and/or ignorance are strong here; Montt was elected to Congress in September, and the front-runner and expected victor, Otto Perez Molina, of the "Patriotista" party, was also a military leader during that time whose campaign slogan is "Mano Dura" (Strong Hand), accompanied by a picture of a clenched fist.
Then it was down into the town of Acoma, which had been re-constructed in the 1980s and populated with 2 different ethnic groups (at least one of whom had been removed from their own village), both as a means of keeping an eye on them and showing the outside world the "benevolence" of the ruling regime.
We then stopped at a cheese "factory" on the outskirts of town, run by a 3rd generation Italian family. We had some fresh lemonade while looking across the surrounding valley. The cheese, along with tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, and carrots (?), were to make up the sandwiches that constituted lunch for the next 3 days-- the
combination of aging on both us and the cheese made for better and better lunch breaks each day.
Then it was up and on through another more remote town, where the children emerged from the cornfields to line the side of the trail and watch the hunch-backed/packed gringos march through town. Amidst the waving and holas, one little girl reached out to touch our hand. We resisted the urge to say that we came as liberators, not colonizers.
We spent the night in a tiny mountainside hamlet that had once been a main (undeveloped) base of the guerrillas-- as we trudged higher and higher, it was easy to see why they had been hard to find.
[in the interest of time/space/attention spans, we will pause here and attempt to conflate and fast-forward through the ensuing days]
The End is Neigh
Up at 3:30 AM the next morning to get to the top of the mountain for sunrise-- a decision we considered leading a mutiny against, but the sunrise did reward us with some oranges and reds before being submerged beneath the rising clouds.
Over the next few days, we crossed a broad variety of landscapes, including some that made us feel a bit like the Baggins family, and villages small and smaller before arriving at a final steep hill on the 4th day, when machismo took over and we all raced up the hill. A moral victory was declared after we came in 4th behind 3 skinny young whippersnappers who have yet to deal with the effects of metabolism, not to mention other things like gout and rickets.
After 2 or 3 more cheese sandwiches, we descended into a town with an actual road, where all 17 of us (and our backpacks) ended up piling into the back of a Toyota pickup for an exhilerating (and rather nerve-wracking) ascent to our quarters for the evening. There, we stayed in the casa of Don Jeronimo, who told us of his civil war experiences the following day atop the highest non-volcanic point in Central America. Amidst the blue sky, hot sun, and surrounding volcanic ranges, he told us of being forced to watch fellow villagers getting stoned (the bad way), hung, and eventually having their heads bashed in with rifle butts for collaborating with the guerrillas by blocking roads and destroying bridges and power lines.
His uncle unluckily had the same first name as one of the accused who had disappeared on his own-- he endured various forms of torture (such as getting his ears burned and back stabbed) before being left for dead. His family dragged his body back into the house after the army had left, also assuming him dead, but he started moving an hour later and is still living today.
A few days later the guerrillas came back to town and executed 3 villagers, whom they accused of revealing both the plots and the names of those involved-- Don G. saw this as the guerrillas way of "washing their hands" of responsibility for their (lack of) protection that they had promised the villagers, leaving the younger G/Jeronimo and his peeps understandably without faith in either side.
We descended along a(n almost( Chinese-ink-painting landscape and then through the afternoon mist to a small tienda where the nicotine addicts bought cancer sticks while the rest of us watched the storekeeper's wife lop the heads off of chickens. Then it was into Todos Santos and the madness therein. We wended our way through the weaving Todos Santerians, noting how almost all the men were decked out in their traditional red striped pants and Elvisian-collared patterned blue jackets.
[Most of who weren't dressed properly were sporting John Cena T-shirts; Senor Cena seems to have either a major WWF fan base down here, or at least cornered the used-clothing market.]
After leaving our packs in the "hotel," we descended back upon the town. Our reception was very good overall-- although we could have used a little less from some of the more inebriated/drooling Santerians-- but the following morning revealed that things had really only just begun to get underway. The collective inebriation seemed to reach its peak between 10 and 12 the next morning, when the streets were littered with both the prone bodies of those who had had a bit too much Quetzalteca (or its newest competitor, "El Machetero," which is 1 or 2 quetzals (10-15 cents) cheaper due to its plastic bottle) and the walking dead who had yet to fully succumb to the "rum"'s mind-shattering effects.
The horse race went on all day-- like the main street, it was simultaneously fascinating and depressing, low-lighted by a disturbing head-on crash between two horses, who had to be put down, while the riders, particularly the one going the wrong way, survived, most likely due to their high blood-alcohol levels.
Things got back on track a little slowly after that, but the riders (including one of those involved in the crash) eventually regained their form and were even joined briefly by some of my fellow trekkers, including one German nut whose high-pitched chortling seemed to be the highlight of the day for the locals.
[Never fear, ours truly had decided long before the crash that this was not the place to learn to ride.]
Over the next few days, we crossed a broad variety of landscapes, including some that made us feel a bit like the Baggins family, and villages small and smaller before arriving at a final steep hill on the 4th day, when machismo took over and we all raced up the hill. A moral victory was declared after we came in 4th behind 3 skinny young whippersnappers who have yet to deal with the effects of metabolism, not to mention other things like gout and rickets.
After 2 or 3 more cheese sandwiches, we descended into a town with an actual road, where all 17 of us (and our backpacks) ended up piling into the back of a Toyota pickup for an exhilerating (and rather nerve-wracking) ascent to our quarters for the evening. There, we stayed in the casa of Don Jeronimo, who told us of his civil war experiences the following day atop the highest non-volcanic point in Central America. Amidst the blue sky, hot sun, and surrounding volcanic ranges, he told us of being forced to watch fellow villagers getting stoned (the bad way), hung, and eventually having their heads bashed in with rifle butts for collaborating with the guerrillas by blocking roads and destroying bridges and power lines.
His uncle unluckily had the same first name as one of the accused who had disappeared on his own-- he endured various forms of torture (such as getting his ears burned and back stabbed) before being left for dead. His family dragged his body back into the house after the army had left, also assuming him dead, but he started moving an hour later and is still living today.
A few days later the guerrillas came back to town and executed 3 villagers, whom they accused of revealing both the plots and the names of those involved-- Don G. saw this as the guerrillas way of "washing their hands" of responsibility for their (lack of) protection that they had promised the villagers, leaving the younger G/Jeronimo and his peeps understandably without faith in either side.
We descended along a(n almost( Chinese-ink-painting landscape and then through the afternoon mist to a small tienda where the nicotine addicts bought cancer sticks while the rest of us watched the storekeeper's wife lop the heads off of chickens. Then it was into Todos Santos and the madness therein. We wended our way through the weaving Todos Santerians, noting how almost all the men were decked out in their traditional red striped pants and Elvisian-collared patterned blue jackets.
[Most of who weren't dressed properly were sporting John Cena T-shirts; Senor Cena seems to have either a major WWF fan base down here, or at least cornered the used-clothing market.]
After leaving our packs in the "hotel," we descended back upon the town. Our reception was very good overall-- although we could have used a little less from some of the more inebriated/drooling Santerians-- but the following morning revealed that things had really only just begun to get underway. The collective inebriation seemed to reach its peak between 10 and 12 the next morning, when the streets were littered with both the prone bodies of those who had had a bit too much Quetzalteca (or its newest competitor, "El Machetero," which is 1 or 2 quetzals (10-15 cents) cheaper due to its plastic bottle) and the walking dead who had yet to fully succumb to the "rum"'s mind-shattering effects.
The horse race went on all day-- like the main street, it was simultaneously fascinating and depressing, low-lighted by a disturbing head-on crash between two horses, who had to be put down, while the riders, particularly the one going the wrong way, survived, most likely due to their high blood-alcohol levels.
Things got back on track a little slowly after that, but the riders (including one of those involved in the crash) eventually regained their form and were even joined briefly by some of my fellow trekkers, including one German nut whose high-pitched chortling seemed to be the highlight of the day for the locals.
[Never fear, ours truly had decided long before the crash that this was not the place to learn to ride.]
Day of the Living Dead
We made it through the rest of the evening (and past the drunken brawlers/slow-dancers) unscathed. We walked out of town at 5:30 the next morning through the streets and past the roadside bars still/already crowded with red-panted Santerians getting a head start on the final day of the festival, which culminated in the brightly-repainted cemetery, where ad-hoc bars were constructed amidst the monuments to facilitate drinking to and for dead relatives who, if they were fortunate enough to survive the horrors of the civil war, most likely passed on through drunken accidents or psoriasis(?) of the liver and/or brain by the very paint-remover they were being honored with.
Now we've returned to the "big city," where we're jumping back into Spanish classes and another homestay, resigned to the fact that it will inevitably feature meals based around bland tortillas along with luke-warm showers-- and yet, after the past week, that doesn't seem so bad.
P.S. We did attempt to but a pair of the red pants, but they didn't have our size... probably for the best.
Now we've returned to the "big city," where we're jumping back into Spanish classes and another homestay, resigned to the fact that it will inevitably feature meals based around bland tortillas along with luke-warm showers-- and yet, after the past week, that doesn't seem so bad.
P.S. We did attempt to but a pair of the red pants, but they didn't have our size... probably for the best.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Correcciónes
Our intelligence proved faulty as the iron fist of Otto Perez Molina went down to the two-handed dove of Alberto Colom & his "UNE" party. (It seems that the main parties all use hand gestures as their symbols down here, leading us to speculate that a large bulk of the advertising probably centers around the intermissions of slide shows). Colom has been called everything from a former Communist sympathizer to a neo-liberal to a conservative in bed w/ the FRG, the peace-sign party headed by the notorious Efrain Rioss Montt. While most of the folks we´ve talked to don´t get very excited about Colom (indeed, 5% of the votes went to both or neither!), his slogan of fighting violence w/ "inteligencia" instead of the "mano dura" of his opponent sounds a little more promising to us-- the lesser of two evils, at least.
As for Monsieur Montt, he ran for presidente in 2003, after overturning laws preventing him from doing so, and lost. However, he was elected to Congress this September, which gives him immunity from prosecution for another 4 years. Although their support is waning due to the corruption that seems to come w/ the territory, he & his party are still a force to be reckoned with.
Now, if you´ll excuse us, we're off to blot out the index fingers of all the FRG "peace signs" that seem to have been painted on every rock that has broken free of the topsoil.
As for Monsieur Montt, he ran for presidente in 2003, after overturning laws preventing him from doing so, and lost. However, he was elected to Congress this September, which gives him immunity from prosecution for another 4 years. Although their support is waning due to the corruption that seems to come w/ the territory, he & his party are still a force to be reckoned with.
Now, if you´ll excuse us, we're off to blot out the index fingers of all the FRG "peace signs" that seem to have been painted on every rock that has broken free of the topsoil.
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