Dispatch Number 24 -Nineteen Times

Jesus is everywhere and no more so than in Latin America. When in Mexico I was surprised at the use of near life size dolls in the catholic churches placed above the pulpit for all to focus on, usually of Jesus nailed to something and bleeding steadily. They are dolls of realism, detailed faces of pain with copious amounts of blood in case you did not know the suffering story we are told of the catholic martyr. Unaccustomed to seeing such gore in their churches an Americans first response is to offer first aid upon seeing Jesus in countries like Mexico and Guatemala.

In Guatemala, they like their Jesus prostrate and bleeding too, but the Guatemalan catholic church takes dolls to a new level with them dressed in various forms of ceremonial dress and colorful regalia -these dolls adorn both sides of the main building residing in alcoves and large recessed glass cases, each with a steel coin box for donations. Unprovable, but this traveler suspects church collections are the second oldest profession.

Churches are an interesting place to observe the people of a community and a probe of its relative and historical wealth. For most part it is a religious center and for a few including myself, a non believer, a place of respite from the noise of the city, the rain, the heat and the shoeshine boys. The church is a place where the air is tranquil -in these things I believe. On watching the class that pray, the ones who rely on prayer, I cannot help but notice that as a people they tend to pray for things they don't have: health, money and good husbands.

From the bench I sit on I can see Jesus in various forms: stabbed to a tree trunk, nailed to a cross, another of him holding a tall staff looking set to lead a procession. Others are of him laying flat in death. There are many other representations of various saints. I do not use the word statue because statues are art forms that leave something to the imagination for they are incomplete in some way. Dolls are detailed objects intended to be life like.

Unlike the understated drab catholic churches in North America those in Latin America display an unusual level of violence demonstrated through realism of Jesus at his death repleat with scaped knees, running blood, big nails and brusing. In Mexico and Guatemala the relationship with death is different than from where I come from. They have a level of comfort that stands in contrast to how North Americans deal with death and suffering.

I donate money each time I visit a church for the pleasure of visiting them, sitting still and watching the people; this time to my pleasure I deposited my money beneath a black Jesus. At the church in Coban, Guatemala if you paid homage to every doll saint and Jesus you would do the sign of the cross 19 times.

Travel Update-
I am on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, slightly east of La Miskito of the same famed Mosquito Coast and where most of your bananas come from. I will attempt what looks and is being reported as a vicious overland journey from the Caribbean coast to a remote border crossing into Nicaragua close to the Pacific Ocean. All dirt, all slow. On these kinds of nasty roads it is surprising how superstitious the driver becomes with the vehicle -in this case I hope Azuita appreciates the oil change I gave her the other week. You can go anywhere, you can do anything, if you are not in a hurry.

David
Trujillo, Honduras

Dispatch Number 23 -Hippies

I bumped into the first hippies I had seen in a long time, the hand-to-mouth kind cobbling it together to keep on traveling one city at a time. It was a tall juggler and a very good looking couple who were making and selling those stereotypical bracelets that I have seen peddled everywhere by foreigners in Mexico and Guatemala. It is a dull repetitive affair of multicolor thread bracelets that many wear today -an art form with little distinction that the artisans create with pride. Copy art produced by many. For those hippies who love traveling on a shoe-string they manage to eke out a living in this sidewalk trade.

Their art does little for me, where they do garner my respect is that they do actually travel hand-in-mouth earning money on a daily basis so they can continue to travel. Whereas, I travel with a checkbook. It is different and I recognize it. What they do is gutsy for tomorrow is unknown.

In the more bohemian of towns in Latin America these kind of hippies gather in small groups often in stereotypical fashion with the juggler, the artisans, the drunks and dopers, fire dancers and hacky sack players. In the main park in Coban the juggler sits idle (this looks very painful to him) and the artisans keep making bracelets.

Often they blend into the sidewalk life wherever they habituate, except in Coban they hold court with 20-30 Guatemalans surrounding them to watch another bracelet being made one string at a time. The juggler has not started his show yet and sits on a park bench fidgeting nervously with a plastic ball that looks designed to keep him in top juggler shape. Feeling ignored and envious of the crowd that had gathered around the artisans he wants to rush into action -like a well trained dog waiting for a command. His pensive darting eyes scan the park waiting...picking his moment. The juggling sticks look like they may leap from his knapsack on their own.

Usually, these kind of traveling hippies blend into the cityscape along the sidewalks and under park trees, however, here they remain a curiosity to the Guatemalans who gather around to watch a thread being strung. As the crowd grew it took me back to my Japan days where some foreigners made a big deal out of being white and different in homogenized Japan and the intellectuals of the same group called them big fish in a small pond. The artisans played it good with 60 eyeballs watching every thread, they looked cool, but one could see they basked and glowed in the silent attention.

David
La Ceiba, Honduras

Dispatch Number 22 -La Coleta

I sit with a glass of tequila in the front row under cover of shade, late afternoon sun showers the grounds. It is small and intimate -from where I sit I am right in it, and could not be happier. Let's see how I hold up watching the act itself. There are two concentric circles of thick chalk matching the shape of the grounds. Hard packed sand has been groomed smooth and level. I am at Plaza de Toros, the "La Coleta" in San Cristobal de la Casas in the southern reaches of Mexico -the bull fights.

Two days earlier I saw a poster promoting the Easter Sunday event and knew I would attend. The blood, the spectacle, the ritual. Now I sit in the ring. I see a white face or two but find myself surrounded by Mexicans and this pleases me, no distractions to listen to, no English speakers to openly howl in shock and disgust, at least those that bring their cultural bias to foreign lands. Judgement of a ritual not theirs. Mexicans are fun at public events like these, I thoroughly enjoyed the professional boxing title fight I attended in Baja California.

Here at the La Coleta there is a thick wood boundary that is the same color as San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. Every bull that has entered the arena has scared the freshly painted wood with its horns, usually right after it is released into the arena, the sound is horrendous and is a show of ferocity. The bull fighters are more commonly referred to as Toreros than Matadores. Each Torero has a cuadrilla, "entourage" of six men that perform different tasks which I will spare you here (there is a concise write up on "wikipedia"). From my spot I watched a member of the entourage sharpen the sword used to deliver the final death blow to the bull known as "estocada", where the sword enters at the shoulder blades and through the aorta or heart.

It will be a duel between six bulls ranging from 460kg to 600kg (1,012 lbs- 1,320 lbs) and three Toreros. Sumidero at 485kg did not have much fight in him, where Monte Bello at 518kg was a clever and hearty fighter who died 15 feet from me. I could see the eyes of the Torero with all the expression and emotion. It was after this I knew I could sit and appreciate the ritual of bull fighting. I arrived without preconception. I did not bring my cultural bias with me -I accepted the ritual as it was and did not try to "figure" out the various aspects or apply my Western logic to it. I came to see-live-hear and feel Mexico.

An excellent fight brings the crowd to their feet waving thousands of white handkerchiefs as a sign of respect for a Torero's performance, it is also intended to influence the single judge presiding over the fight to wave his white handkerchief as well -it is the highest honor that can be given to the fighter. On this day the crowd is intense and the judge endures a great deal of jeering including some from the Torero himself who has an orchestral command of the crowd at that moment. The moment is fraught with tension until the judge makes his decision.

A single handkerchief earns one ear, which is sliced off the bull in the ring where it fell dead. For an excellent fight both ears come off indicated by two handkerchiefs. During the ovation the Torero is presented the still warm ear or ears, he then makes a show of the ears by presenting them to someone in the crowd. Having anything presented to you by the Torero is an honor, it is intentional and not haphazard.

During the ovation the matador walks the entire ring and the fans throw personal effects at his feet which he briefly holds or wears. People throw everything into the ring: hats, wine bags, seat cushions, shoes and all are thrown back to the owner by the Torero. If it is the Toreo's last fight he drinks from the wine bag filled with tequila or red wine. It is an intimate affair.

Bull fighting is an act of ballet between man and beast both will kill if given the opportunity, and one such opportunity came to a particularly clever bull. Much to my pleasure a bull drew blood and injury from both a bull fighter AND one of his assistants. The assistant was gored in the thigh when he was trying to place his pair of darts into the shoulders of the bull. The bull went on to deliver the exact same injury to the Torero. I watched several bulls die up to this point and it felt like justice, a balancing of sorts to keep the tormentors honest. The assistant managed to limp off under his own power, whereas the bull fighter had to be carried out by his cuadrilla like a man being carried off the battlefield.

Unsure who said it, probably Hemingway, that bull fighting was a place to study death and motion. It certainly was.

Dispatch Number 21 -Errant Thoughts III

Guatemala

How the Place felt on the First day

The police are few and the place takes on the air of self-rule. To live here you need to be aware of everything. At all times.

Money
Guatemalan money is so worn out, it is limp and lifeless in the hand. It feels damp easily. One does not like to touch it. Dirty worn paper.

Tough
I knew Ted was tough when I learned that he used newspaper at the toilet. He grew tougher in my eyes when I watched him blow his nose with newspaper as well. A single roll of toilet paper in Guatemala costs 12 cents. So it is not about the money.

Sleep

I sleep without charge if I promise to take my meals at the comedor. A comedor is an inexpensive family restaurant that usually offer one or two dishes; it is a pared down affair and the food is usually good. It is the only comedor in this village, I will sleep here. Out back.

I listen to the sounds of the family in the kitchen and late night conversation with their friends. I sit on the tailgate to write and capture the day. I will bed in my tent next to the chicken coop and smile myself to sleep. A splendid day.

Visiting the Same Place Twice
What once charmed now depresses.

On Not Being From There
What is normal for them is an adventure for me.

The British Traveler
Mexico is beautiful, are you planning to go there?
I can't go to Mexico.
Why?
Because my government says I can't travel there. Too dangerous, there are travel restrictions.
So you are not going because of that?
My insurance will not work in Mexico because of government warning about travel there.
So you won't visit Mexico because your insurance won't work there?
I won't visit Mexico.

Wow, I thought...I won't visit a place because I won't have insurance coverage. Industrialized nations and their peoples obsession with safety and predictability. A paralyzing dependence on insurance. It's nuts to me.

Misadventure
This is an interesting experience. I wanted some risky travel and here it is in my lap. The roads less taken and I am on them.

Conversation Stoppers...What?
"The first and only time I shot a gun was my first date with this girl." -Ted Joseph

Mighty Ants
Small ants are eating their way into my tent. A new set of tiny holes appeared every night for several days before I realized what was up. They eat holes in the floor pan of the tent, a rather tough fibrous form of plastic, but the holes are only large enough to get their own bodies through, on the return trip with food they cannot bring the coveted insect body parts with them.

Once I catch on my only defense is to hang the tent during the day from a tree, then lower it at night to sleep. It is starting to look like a duct tape quilt.

Shoeshine
Business is bad for the shoeshine boys. The sun is low and they walk town's main park seeking customers. Most are perpetually soiled characters that are 7 to 10 years old. When customers prove to be scarce a few of them begin to play, when only moments ago they were competitors scouring the park for a pair of shoes to polish up.

The purity of children. Instead of sizing up potential customers they build and fly paper airplanes, then their attention moves to faux kung-fu fighting. It is of high quality with kicks punches, spin kicks, hand chops and other moves I do not know the names of -just like the movies. They are good. It is entertaining to watch and especially when the the play action is filled with happy excited giggles.

Guests
I sit alone taking a meal at an inexpensive diner, comedor with so-so chicken. Lazy flies hover about and stake claims all over the table. Raids are launched against my plate of food, the coffee cup and the ever present stack of tortillas. I feel defenseless. The flies run free in this town. The fly strips are at capacity, where is the sheriff?

Differences
The difference between a man and a boy:

A man knows what he wants to do with himself when he is presented with unstructured time.

Time
Time alone in a foreign place has you contemplate yourself -your location in a time and place. I ponder the meaning of my solitude. Reaching no conclusions.

Amy Winehouse
My guide, Manuel and I are lost deep in the northern lowlands of the Guatemala jungle. We are happy, yet lost in this maze of dirt tracks leading in all directions. There are no road signs and few people are around. There are no buildings out here. Amy Winehouse blasts.

There is no line of sight in the jungle, no vantage point to be had. Only dense forest that you can barely see 20 yards in any direction, including up.

Sweet Old Lady
I take breakfast at the tortilla makers house, dirt floors with baby ducks and chickens running about the room. When my feet are still the chicks peck at my shoes. After this I will take a walk in the jungle and contemplate leaves and things like that. Her tortillas are excellent, made from scratch, the corn meal was made from whole corn kernels.

Gold and Silver

The people of Guatemala are born with natural beautiful teeth, they are square and proportionately broad, straight and true with an easy shade of white. However, where dental care and daily maintenance are concerned things fall off fast. The majority of men and women have tooth rot on their front grill. Depending on availability of money the damaged teeth are filled in like picture frames of gold.

Going Mobile
You have travelled too far.

Books Read in Past Two Months

The War of the Worlds, Midnight Express, Bourne Supremacy, No Country for Old Men, The Glass Key, The Discovery and Conquest of Mexico, Lives Per Gallon, Blink, The Maya, Civilization and Its Discontents, Rule of the Bone, Sweet Waist of America, The King of Torts. I think I am missing a couple.

David,
Coban, Guatemala

Dispatch Number 20 -Back Roads: IV

Guatemala-
Tortillas and Beans
I opted for full cultural immersion, taking up a month long residence with a ladino family (Spanish/Indian mix) where only Spanish was spoken, in the small town of Todos Santos in the Guatemala highlands (pop. 3,500 at 7,900'). I studied Spanish one-on-one at a school in town and took all my meals with this family in the cramped smokey kitchen. The experience was rich and filled with cultural exchange at every turn. I'll lead with a favored subject: food.

In Mexico the food dances with vibrant colors and flavors and the peoples relationship to it is strong. To the south across the border Guatemalan food sits limp and near lifeless on the plate, it looks disinterested in being eaten. In Mexico the food jumps into your mouth. In Guatemala it is dull on the tongue and is like a beautiful woman without charm, it is food without spices.

Food without inspiration. I stare at my plate with dull eyes. The stack of tortillas stare back. Black beans fan out across the plate. Always beans always tortillas and if I am lucky a piece of chicken or gristled meat. It is food without charm. My head droops over the table in sullen air while the plate of Guatemalan food waits with patience.

Mexico is relatively modernized and has machines make most of its tortillas. The Guatemalan prepares them with love from scratch. Corn kernels transformed into corn meal then hand patted into the best tortillas I have eaten. Ah, the contrasts of the Guatemala I have come to know.

Hens
Last week of Spanish class. Last week in this house full of women. I suppose it is natural instinct in them to hen-peck the only man in the house. One man and three adult women, the hens take over. In my case I am hen-pecked by two of the three women. Nora the master of the house is a 48 year old elementary school teacher and my Spanish instructor. Clara is a hired hand to keep house, cook, clean and keep after the infant boy.

Clara is a cute and very short ladino of 18 years with a well developed Guatemalan Pouch -a sumptuous bread basket of a belly that hangs over her jeans. She is very pretty and overfed with tortillas. The diet here is carbohydrate laden with beans and tortillas. Clara gets after me to either eat more tortillas at every meal or chases after me when I boil water for coffee or oatmeal. When I am "cooking" she looks over my shoulder and comments on this and that, this all leaves an air of impatience on her part with my presence in the kitchen, cocina. The kitchen is her domain, she prepares every meal over a gas range and over a wood burning stove. In Guatemala the man is not welcome in the kitchen unless it is to solely eat.

I can't tell if I've become more sensitive to the hen-pecking or they have grown comfortable dominating me like and infant or imbecile. I write of the frustrations of being hen-pecked, however, it is important to note the sense of humor that pervades the house between the three of them, it is a fun lighthearted house and the conversations at the kitchen table are colorful.

As for Nora she concerns herself with every movement I make, may make or have made. If I am making coffee with Nora it's, What are you doing?. If I have a jacket on because it is cold in the house it's, Where are you going?. When I walk in, Where have you been?. To me it is tiresome and pointlessly obvious; sometimes I am certain they are not listening to my answers. They just can't let it be. When it is early in the morning and they do this I snarl some and retreat to my private room.

I suppose a great deal of it is culture. The Latin Americans of Guatemala and Mexico are never alone. For example, in my house there are three bedrooms with beds, yet all three adults sleep in one big bed, three women, one 6 year old and one infant. All that space and they choose to sleep together like a litter of kittens. That is cultural.

Their need to dominate manifests with them checking in with me or rather on me and it cramps my cat-like solitary ways.

Side note:
On Sunday, June 28 there was a bloodless coup in Honduras. I am one week from entering that country and should make for some interesting travel and possible dispatches.

David,
Nebaj, Guatemala

Dispatch Number 19 -Back Roads: Part III

Odyssey

In short, I believe Guatemala has been a spectacular experience because I have chosen to travel alone. Beautiful friendships have been made along the way with a travel agenda all my own. I have hiked over ancient Maya ruins in Tikal, trekked by foot and car into remote reaches of the northern lowland jungles to observe abundant wildlife and walk among more Maya ruins that very few have heard of or know about, undeveloped sites not open to tourism that necessitate a local guide. The best part of these remote sites is that you can pitch a tent and sleep in the ancient cities. To go to sleep and to wake up in these forgotten temples is beyond words.

Where I have traveled in Guatemala there are no backpackers or tourist buses. I take the back roads and rocky mountain passes in my 1986 Land Cruiser, this has made for some very colorful travel. Maya hamlets and villages lightly populate the dusty roads where the men and women wear traditional clothes. Each Indian community has its brilliant costume of many colors. Remote places where the sounds are Spanish or one of the local Maya languages, of which there are more than twenty. The Maya Indian represents over 1/2 of the population of Guatemala.

I will admit I see them entirely from the exterior, like a film with brilliant color but silent. They are opaque and mysterious to the other 1/2 of Guatemala let alone myself the complete outsider. Some days I feel deeply in it, both smooth and comfortable in the environment, other days spent in reflection I realize that I am really removed from where I come from.

The mountain setting of Todos Santos is stunning even for this traveler who grew up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California and hiked them regularly as an adult. At over 7,900 feet the air is dry and cool for a change (the lowlands were brutal with heat and humidity) and the green mountain sides are filled with terrace farming of potatoes, cabbage and corn. Striking. I took a two day hike in these mountains passing through areas where there are no roads, no cars, no phones and no electricity -it is the heart of Maya lands. There lifestyles are remarkably preserved by way of customs, language and bloodlines. Rich cultural dimensions in mouth gaping countryside.

After language school in Todos Santos I will leave Guatemala for Honduras to continue the journey south. The feeling coming over me these days is that I started as a tourist who became a traveler and now this is giving way to the deeper sensation that this is an odyssey.

To continue in next Dispatch about the family I lived with and Guatemalan food.

Reply to remarks from readers:

The question of photography has come up more than once. I was careless in Mexico and lost my camera. It has been replaced, however, the love affair I had with previous one has not carried over to the new one. So, I capture images in words these days. Perhaps my lust with the camera will return, then I will have pictures to share.

I will continue to post several Mexico Dispatches mixed in with ones from Guatemala.

David,
Todos Santos, Guatemala

Dispatch Number 25 -Weddings

I have attended many weddings in my life, even witnessed my own and over time understood I do not like them. When traveling in Mexico an invitation to attend one came my way while I was studying Spanish not far from Mexico City. Taxco where I was living is a colonial gem of a city with whitewashed buildings and cobblestone streets set on a very steep mountainside. The centerpiece, as in most towns in Mexico, was the beautiful Santa Prisca Catholic church that has been the religious anchor in this silver town of 90,000 people for over 250 years.

The wedding ceremony for Gabriel's daughter was held in the incredibly ornate Santa Prisca with gold leaf baroque figurines covering all walls from floor to ceiling. The setting was impressive to say the least. It is a lovely ornate church. I had never attended a Mexican wedding let alone one in a church I admired -with excitement I accepted the invitation.

I attended the ceremony and reception. I had visited and spent time sitting in Santa Prisca on a previous occasion and felt ready to visit it again to witness a wedding ceremony. As anticipated the ceremony in the church was a pleasure, after it was over we set off for the reception across the hilly town in white Volkswagen Beetle taxis. The reception was full of cultural surprises that delighted. In the end, however, for me it was still a wedding -between conversations I wrote this:

Weddings are boring. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Boring. Drudgery at its finest, they can be such dull affairs. People trapped in pointless conversation while others sit still in silence looking dead bored. Trapped here. Weddings -is there a good one? Painful social experience. Painful. They are necessary and one of those things man does and does and does. Like a bad invention or poor product the wedding is never improved upon or revised. An antiquated ritual.

Man effectively manages to improve his highly touted technologies with great rapidity in things like cars and computers, but the wedding party remains unchanged, outdated and horribly dull. I am held hostage at this event for appearances and the prospect of a warm meal. The things we endure for friends and a free meal.

Yes, I know it is the people that make the party and I must take my share of the responsibility for the dullness that ensued. Perhaps my mood was effected by a mild hangover, dehydration and that I was very hungry at the time.

A week later I was in the same grand setting of Santa Prisca in the early evening to listen to a classic guitarist perform. Maestro Atsumas Nakabayashi, a master of the instrument filled the hall with beautiful sounds that gently filled the gold chamber. I thought, David, you can live anywhere in this world -anywhere. There is culture everywhere. The church was impressive on its own, to have attended a solo concert and a wedding in it was memorable.



David

Danli, Honduras