As we started off on today’s field trip, to La Merced, mi maestra told me she needed to make a quick stop on the way. Her definition of “on the way” must differ slightly from mine; we went ten blocks in the opposite direction.
It’s conceivable that, because she knows I like to walk, she thinks she’s doing me a favor by taking me on errands. I’d be convinced of that, if only she initiated the occasional educational conversation or identified the occasional object — tuc-tuc, convent, fume. But no. If I’m to learn, I have to nudge her from her silence.
Today I pointed to the volcano and asked her if it had a smoking habit; the thing she does well is correct me.
Anyhow, we were soon back at the mercado, jammed because today is market day. I followed her as she threaded through narrow rows of stalls into the shadowy bowels of the market, turning finally into a narrow alley I hadn’t noticed before. She waved me over to a heavy wood-slatted chair against the stone wall, as she continued around the corner.
About twenty feet in front of me were two long, parallel rows of tables flanked by four long, parallel rows of women: some young with babies, some ancient with wrinkles; some dressed in cheesy Western apparel and others in huipiles. A pimply lad blasted Guatemalan disco from a tinny PA system but the real action was in the front, where a perky woman walked around with a microphone saying upbeat things.
I listened for keywords, but heard nary a “God” or “perdition” so I ruled out a religious congregation. I caught an “end of the year” … and was that an “inexpensive”? Against my teacher’s instructions I stood up and leaned against the opposite wall where I had a better view. The women looked at me curiously. I smiled back: just one of the girls.
I heard an “ocho mujeres,” whereupon ocho mujeres stepped from the crowd and moved to the front of the room. Then Microphone Woman said “baila” and that’s what the ocho mujeres did, with delightful abandon. Just then my teacher popped out from the crowd and started to sweep me away, but not before I saw what lay on the tables in front of each woman. Catalogs!
Pyramid schemes are alive and well in Guatemala.
La Merced, with lots of ancient and colonial remnants but extensively rebuilt after years of earthquakes, is an active church (my teacher was married there), filled with painted wooden Jesuses and Maryses and saints, and hundreds of candles and, in the adobe walls, slots for paying the saints.
In front of the most popular statue a diminutive Maya woman sobbed and pleaded and crossed herself over and over. She went from station to station in despair, likely giving each saint more money than she had to give. It reminded me of the lottery: people who can’t afford it spending their money on hope.
Back at school my teacher showed me her catalog which makes Lillian Vernon look like Gump’s. Afterwards, we decided that, just for today, we’d knock off early.
After M finished school we met up with Friederike and walked home to Callejon del Burrito where Doí±a Rosa was waiting with another amazing meal.
The four of us sat around and talked until a shuttle arrived to pick us up for today’s adventure. First, to the macadamia farm where everyone but me learned about the nuts and related products.
But I didn’t need to understand Spanish to enjoy the massage.
And isn’t this a cool bathroom?
I bought tons of nuts (the best I’ve ever had) and macadamia nut oil that will make me look young within three weeks. From the macadamia finca we rode to Pastores. There, the main highway becomes a narrow street, lined on either side with boot shops just two stone steps up from the road. For Q225 each I bought leather cowboy boots for EP and me; with Friederike’s expert help M bargained hard for a slightly fancier pair.
Back at home, I had to do my homework: the kind with faces on it where you have to identify the emotion and if you crayon in the faces you might get extra credit.
And I’ll have you know, I got an excellent on that paper.
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