The Best Way to Cure a Hangover

I knew, stated, and confirmed that I would come back to Xela one day. As much as it was predictable that such thing would happen in the span of July, my last month in Guatemala, I had no idea it would be only after three weeks of living in San Juan.

Las Fuentes Georginas

Dreams do come true, I tell you! After only commenting on a picture of beautiful Las Fuentes Georginas (quote-in-quote “WHERE IS THIS PLACE?!”), Marina, my friend who decided to share this NGO internship in Guatemala experience with me, had her way to convince us to spend a day in this gorgeous natural spa. It just so happened to be the weekend of my recently acquired friends’ birthday, and guess what? He lives and throws parties in Xela exactly. We packed our backpacks lightly, put away some money for champagne and Quetzalteca (local white rum that has an image of traditionally dressed Guatemalan woman as a logo), made sure our swimsuits are ready and took the infamous chicken bus to Xela (Quetzaltenango).

Quetzalteca

The problem was, the drivers here just want to pack anyone and everyone inside their vehicles, so instead of explaining to us we’re boarding a bus to Guatemala not Xela, they just rushed us in and assured everything’s going to be alright.

Except it wasn’t.

Instead of just sitting uncomfortably for 3 hours, we ended up hanging out on the side of a “highway” not of out of our own choice and changing buses 3 times before we got where we were supposed to be. Then I realized I don’t know the city as well as I though I did, and we walked forever before reaching our very first and very important stop: Xela Pan. Now, literally it just translates to Xela’s bread, but goodness! This bakery offers quality pastries (real éclairs!) for half a dollar. I’m sort of glad I had to move to San Juan – otherwise I might have ended up twice as heavy as I usually am.
Two of us split three of those delicious, creamy mood-lifters, and partied the rest of the afternoon and night away. In the rhythm of salsa, of course!

The very foggy spa

The next day started with a perfect (but scary, since it was incredibly foggy) 20min drive to the Hot Springs, followed by very hangover-friendly relaxation. The weather might not have been the most desired, but feeling the cold rain on our faces while soaking the rest of our bodies in comforting hot water felt incredibly freeing. It very well might have been the first time ever since we started interning that no one thought about work, at least for an hour or two.  With all the skin hydration and wrinkly fingers, we ate tortillas like one should in Guatemala and drove back, a little less tense about the road and actually… anything else, really.

Too bad that on our way back, all the relaxation faded away as soon as we heard “Buses to San Pedro don’t run on Sundays”. Perfect. Three bus-switches later, we just went for a tuk-tuk (aka rickshaw) lift and fell onto our respective beds. Sleeping after that weekend was even more delicious than the Xela Pan éclairs. Especially because I most surely dreamt of them.

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Tip-Toeing To The Tire Turtle

It all started two weeks ago. Actually, the ‘mother project’ has been executed several months before, but the hatching of our turtle could be traced back to the first trip to a dump.

Santa Clara dump

Yes, a dump. We (the Rising Minds team) were to construct a playground for very young Guatemalan kids, and we were to do it in a sustainable, cheap, and empowering way. Inspired by endeavors like the “enTIREly fun playgrounds”, we set off into the tangled roads up the mountains and did a little pinchazo (a sort of tire/car parts shop) orientation. In the towns of Santa Clara, San Juan, and surroundings there were quite a few of those ‘shops’ and with equally clueless expressions, their owners promised to let us take their… trash. All we needed were used useless tires that didn’t have any metal stringy parts sticking out of them. Lesson #1: tires have metal in them. Not always, but when they do, they’re not the safest playground building material. And no worries, we figured that way before anyone got hurt.
So with the good word, we counted 22 promised tires and went back home, very satisfied, and very excited to confirm our sandbox/turtle design.

Things in Guatemala run slightly differently than they do in, let’s say, US. That’s the sole reason why the next day we ended up with only 15 out of those 22 promised tires on top of a Rising Minds’ friends’ van. That did not seem like enough, so decisions had to be made: with very adventurous hearts the three of us (plus the dedicated young son of the driver) slid down the slope and into the Sana Clara dump. We knew there were recently-thrown-away tires there, and all our hopes seemed to lay in there too. A rather questionably hygienic hour later, we had 6 tires more, very dirty hands, and sweaty foreheads. Us rolling the tires up the hill was excruciatingly similar to Sisyphus’ work, and believe me, that comparison was not motivating. But it didn’t matter. Mission accomplished!

It took two more weeks of waiting for the rains to go away and for my co-worker’s engineer dad to come, but we were more than ready and extremely excited to get the actual job done. Upon our arrival in the village of Panyebar, where we were constructing, 11 mothers were waiting for instructions with their kids wrapped in blankets around their backs, and hoes in their hands.

Empowerment: Mothers of Panyebar working on a playground for their kids

It was all work in progress that we needed to figure out as we went: trials and errors, realizations about tire structure (they’re very flexible and not that easy to put a screw in, as the rubber closes on you before you put a bolt through), and capacity/reality checks. Those are just details, though. We got on the job without a blink and finished the same day despite some lags revolving around the lack of washers that would prevent bolts and screws from pulling through the tires.

For stability, we stacked 4 tires on top of each other as the main turtle body part, constructed two-tired legs/shell parts around it, and put two tires half way into the ground to make up for the neck and tail, which brought about a wave of laughs amongst the mothers, as our sometimes-poor Spanish skills made us confuse ‘tail’ with ‘butt’. Cheerful.

The head was a whole new project altogether, and with a limited battery power tools, we had to fight for the eyes to be done out of separate tires rather than painted on. It might have been challenging for two college girls dealing with slim tuk-tuk tires, but the effect was well… well worth it:

Our soon-to-come-to-life Turtle

We came back the next day to paint the playground and make sure the turtle comes to life. Even though the sun there was striking hot the entire day, we still managed to convince the kids to put the play off for one more day to allow it to dry, but I must say, I was curious and excited myself to see them climb the turtle and give it a good endurance test. We’re back there Wednesday, so nothing missed. For now we’ve just decided to stay in the office and stare at our screens, this time decorated with the bright green TURTLE pictures.

THE TURTLE: Recycled Tire Playground

More photos of the process HERE.

Round and round the San Juan Eye

The San Juan fair Ferris Wheel

At the very moment I live in San Juan la Laguna, a small purely Guatemalan town on the shore of Lake Atitlan. It’s 10min and 10 Quetzales (local currency) away from another small Guatemalan town – San Pedro – which is filled with global citizens, vagabonds, temporary explorers, Spanish students, and other sorts of blondes on the go. The dynamics, frankly, are quite amusing – going from one corner (Mashroom? Something special?) to another (fried plaintain, huipiles – traditional clothing, and the sound of a woman’s hands clapping tortillas) might be a surprisingly long trip, as almost no one makes it to San Juan from San Pedro.

Well I did, and what a treat it is! I’m not going to praise the wonders of homestays abroad just yet, but my lovely summer-2012-family made sure I squeeze some local fair amusement into my already busy schedule.

As we were leaving the house, Arly, my recent little host-sister, grabbed my arm knowing very well that once we enter the crowds, there will be nothing else. I stumped awkwardly, rising above everyone else (5’9’’ never felt that tall), falling over my own ankle-long skirt. But there we were, in the center of action, arm in arm with every single citizen of San Juan and surrounding pueblos, passing stalls of hot pizza and getting dangerously close to the rueda. Rueda is a Ferris Wheel. Just like the London Eye, only that the San Juan Eye is not so large and fancy, but made of put together PVC pipes and flickering Christmas-like lights. It’s large enough to require a certain amount of life-risking leanings for someone to try out this (un)stable entertainment, though.

“Which one are you going for?” asked my host mom with a slightly crazed look, catching onto Arly’s hand. There were two Eyes, the small one completely shadowed (both literally and metaphorically) by the Big Eye. I said Big. I wasn’t sure why. I only figured that since I’ll live here for a total of 6 weeks, I should sooner or later face this attraction.

With Arly and her older (not at all amused) brother Allan, we bought tickets ($0.75 each – all you need to risk your life and any recent meals) and stepped onto the trembling steps of the bizarre construction. It started moving and swinging us slowly, barely reaching the top of the circle. I thought “Well, that was fun, nice view of the surrounding areas, too shaky to let go of the securing bar and take out my camera, but still worth the 5Q.” I smiled at my little host sister, feeling like the real protector (it was her first time on the Big wheel too), and completely froze as we started speeding up without a warning. It made my stomachs shift around. I couldn’t count how many times we made the top, neither how many more screams I’ve heard. I kept looking to the side, half watching out for the little girl, half avoiding looking front (and much worse – down!) and full avoiding thinking of the fragility of the Big Eye. Then it slowed down. Along with my heartbeat, my breath, and mortal thoughts.

I smiled, made a barely correct comment in Spanish to Arly, and she only replied “Y ahora atras!”. What? As in… back? How… back? Back? No, back. No!
But it happened. We gained speed and started all over again, only in reverse. I thanked God and my Host Mom in my mind for putting dinner off for later. My fingers clinging onto the seat, my skirt flying up (how, oh how, could have I predicted that?), I leaned back and looked for the tad of enjoyment I must have been getting out of it, but found only shaky limbs. How is this happening to me, me who last year desperately (hence successfully) wanted to find a bungee jumping spot in the middle of Warsaw, in Poland?

I still smiled away, keeping the Big Sister authority untouched – we were finally done. Without a second look back, we left and headed straight to one of the street pizza stalls, where I had to remind everyone around that vegetarians do not eat ham by giving out tiny slices to the family members. Sharing is caring, huh? As long as I don’t have to share any more seats on a random Ferris Wheel in an unknown country.

Show me your chicken

Lake Atitlan

There is no travelling through Latin America without any “slightly shocking” bus rides. It’s not even exclusive to the Americas – those little local buses run around the whole developing world. Once you board a converted-yellow-US-school-bus you’ll know what I mean when I say these are special. To my own surprise I boarded the first ‘local’ bus in Guatemala only a few days ago. What a ride!

Oh, it’s quite important to mention they’re called chicken buses, at least here in Central America. Of course, there’s a very good reason for that. I wish I had a picture that expresses more than a 1,000 words, but I missed my best-ever opportunity. Seating in the third row on the left, I peaked over my book (you can’t really read on such bumpy roads) and saw a… chicken peaking over a hole in its card box. I swear we even made eye contact.

I dropped it fast and turned to search for my camera, but those lovely chicken buses have so little leg space, that my backpack was impossible to pull up from under my knees without doing some serious yoga on the spot. And I’m not able to do that. So it took me a good five minutes, and trying to be secretive and technologically-culturally sensitive, I directed the lens at the box and… the chicken was gone! It hid inside, getting more bored than curious over (I guess) a usual view. My once in a lifetime opportunity was gone forever i.e. until the next such ride.
“Show me your chicken” I kept thinking while peaking over every minute and a half, before I realized my English phrasing might get really awkward sometimes, whether only in my thoughts or documented on my blog. Either way, the charm didn’t work.

I was absolutely disappointed in myself and the missed opportunity, but the rather foggy window provided me with enough entertainment instead. Soon enough I saw the beautiful spread of Lake Atitlan in front of me, and just as I was about to gasp and smile to myself we turned around yet another corner and a few wildly posed excavators were feeding on a nearby hill. So much for the hopeful, breathtaking views.

It did turn a little nicer and more positive when I noticed two grown men playing with a ball on a gas station by the road. It wasn’t even a soccer ball or anything of the more-professional sort, no. It was a simple, small, rubber ball like the first one you ever got as a 4-year-old child. They seemed happy. Adorable, truly.

Then I felt the guy’s next to me head falling heavily onto my shoulder. He was fast asleep, thank heavens he wasn’t snoring, and I tried really subtly to move away in the little space I had to coordinate within, but I wasn’t as successful as I wished. I quickly remember that one time I fell asleep on an unknown Indian man’s shoulder traveling back in high school after an all-nighter at a train station. Funnily, I had a group of friends with me who instead of waking me up thought it would be hilarious to see my face once I wake up and realize what’s happening. This Guatemalan guy to my right had no friends there to either wake him up or laugh at him soon after – he was forgiven and, frankly, ignored.

Falling from one hill onto another, I let myself enjoy the beauty of this overtly-cheap and questionably-safe, unpredicted rollercoaster ride. Highly recommended (but not for your nerves).

A no-longer-blonde adventure

Guatemala City Central Park

Every now and then I have an urge to do something to my hair. Whether it’s going bald (almost for a cause) or an amateur asymmetrical cut, it never seems to surprise my friends. So I went ginger for a change, and with that, I went to Guatemala.

As a lonely, vulnerable woman, I pulled each and every single string I could to connect with friends, and friends of friends, and their friends, so my loneliness wouldn’t last longer than my flight.  And it worked! Upon my arrival to Guatemala City a smile (familiar only from facebook), greeted me from across the little gate. My enthusiasm confused several taxi drivers who almost got a client – or so they thought – and I rushed with two backpacks (one front, one back) to meet my temporary host.

The capital was only a short stop for me, however nice, because I ambitiously decided to do more studying just after finishing the semester at college. Spanish School, here I come! After all, that’s one of the things gringos believe Guatemala is famous for. So after two full days of relaxing, I got escorted to a bus stop at 5.30am and… left alone. Predicted, prepared for, and not so new to me. But it always strikes.

I had a lot of time to observe. And as much as I am used to vendors entering the bus at every stop and pitching their product in extremely fast Spanish, I never realized how invisible I could be. It’s always the foreigners who get the most (oftentimes unwanted) attention, but for these salesmen we’re good only to be overlooked. Soon enough, I realized that without me expressing active interest, they will assume I know no Spanish, have no idea about their ways, and am no potential customer. I might have been slightly hungry by then, but being ignored never felt as comfortable.

So I reached my destination, chit-chatted with a rather bored, customer-less taxi driver, decided I shall use no English from now on, and knocked heavily on the school’s door. Barely a formality.

Now, with my own room in a Guatemalan house, an actual local phone number, improved Spanish, and no-longer-blonde hair, I almost feel like a native. Maybe I can cross “sign up for couchsurfing!” off of my TO-DO list.