The Wormlips Scrapbook

You know what’s a pretty word? Madrugada. (It means dawn.)

Poor Eleni. Every time we video chat, I give her a cursory greeting and then it’s Where’s Emmy? I want to talk to my baby! The good girl that she is, Eleni produces for the camera one perfect grandchild. I open my mouth as wide as I can. So does Emmy. Emmy wiggles her two index fingers at me, redrum style, and I do the same. Emmy and I talk about dogs and big babies and feet and other feet. We do bora bora and Emmy laughs when I tickle her virtual stomach. Poor Eleni tries to get in the occasional word, but really, I have so many games to play that I just don’t have time. I hope Eleni realizes how much I adore her, and how I acted as stupid with her 32 years ago, and how pretty I think she always looks, and what a good job she’s doing. Does she know that when I look at Emmy, I often see her, particularly when Emmy gets Mischief Face? Does she know that I’m every bit as proud of the life she’s forging as I am of Molly’s choices? I hope so.

Redrum Fingers

I should tell you about what’s going on in Guatemala these days, but I’m embarrassingly ignorant. I do know this: Last time I was here, Álvaro Colom was coming into office as president. Last week he stepped down to his rival in the last election, Otto Pérez Molina. As I wrote back then, Pérez Molina—la mano dura, or strong hand—is closely associated with atrocities committed during the civil war. Guate now has one of the highest crime rates in the world (Honduras is the highest of all, by a wide margin), but then again, the U.S. isn’t many countries behind.

Still (or maybe in consequence) you always see Guatemalans laughing and joking. I don’t know if road rage exists as it does in the U.S. During one of my trips, there was a terrible driver who kept cutting in front of our van dangerously. All our driver did was laugh lightheartedly each time; not worth getting worked up about.

Today was a nothing day. There’s a nice museum (La Azotea) in Jocotenango with displays about Maya music, clothing and more. I sat in Antigua’s Parque Central to wait for the shuttle. Since we’re on Guatemalan time, it was half an hour late. When we arrived, I wanted only to go to the little gift shop because there was something I wanted to get Emmy. I convinced the ticket guy to let me in without paying the large entry fee, but I was allowed to stay just eight minutes, until the next van departed. I shopped fast.

Every day I buy fresh cookies at Doña Luisa panaderia, and a bag of chips and a diet Coke at La Bodogona. All that walking doesn’t counteract the dietary impact of my purchases. This is the first time I’ve gained weight on a trip to a developing country.

The last few days I haven’t gotten lost. Well, hardly ever. I tried to lose myself in the vast market today. I just started walking without even attempting to keep my bearings. As I’ve said before, I don’t like to document the market photographically, but it is a rich place for the senses. Hundreds of vendors chant loudly about what they’re purveying, and there’s music, and kids squawking, and buses roaring, and who knows whatall. People in bright clothing move among colors and shapes and textures of vegetables and legumes and ground spices. And the smell: some good, some not. I decided to amble down a row of meat, its guardians casually swatting away the persistent flies. Above the entry of the stalls, bloody carcasses are suspended in a row like beaded curtains. The smell started to get to me. I tried not to breathe as I made my way for the end of the long row. It reminded me of my youth when we kids would try to hold our breath all the way through the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel (7,650 feet, as I recall). Each time we all lied that we had. Anyway, I don’t have that much breath any more so I was pretty much gasping as I bustled past massive bloody livers and spines and tongues and to better air.

Still, I like it there. And the strangest thing was that, despite my having reached the darkest bowels of the place without paying attention, I walked straight back out that maze as though I’d built it.

Before heading home, I went through the artisans’ mercado again. I bought two things for Emmy, and by mistake something for myself, and one other thing for Emmy.

I look one of my Livingston braids out. Here’s the other.

I made a reservation to spend the last of my money going horseback riding tomorrow for two hours, in the hills above Antigua. Then there’s the day after that. Then the day after that I head home. I wish I knew what classes I’m to start teaching on Monday.

I never cease to amaze myself. How can I produce so much verbiage to describe a day in which I was bored because I didn’t do anything?

Tags: Guatemala

As much as I love my bloggy, it’ll be a relief to put it to bed for the foreseeable future, once I get home. In the meantime, I’m glad to have a record of my journey. And so it continues…

I walked into town at 8:00 a.m. to get coffee since I was out of tea. My stomach thought that was one of my stupider ideas.

I came upon a band of wee ones at El Arco, and was wildly entertained by the littlest, who was spinning and leaping with gusto. By the time I got my camera out, he’d wound down, but still had spunk. Watch as he becomes drained of his last bit of enthusiasm and tries to find renewed hope by repeatedly checking the level of the donations box. The quality is funky, but it’s still easier to see if you view it large. Click once, twice, thrice to view.

While out in public, I eavesdrop on passing conversations when I can, to see what I can comprehend. Usually I get most of the important parts: She never [?][?][?] without [?]. But today I understood a whole sentence: Everyone has a complete system for eggs.

Last night I perused the Lonely Planet guidebook for the few standard tourist sights that I haven’t yet seen. Twenty-four hours later, I have exhausted the book, and also had a chance to re-visit one of my two other favorite places (San Francisco; the other is Santo Domingo). My pictures will illuminate your shadowy mind, but you have to listen to me first, or scroll down the page.

Oh, darn. I just looked at the photos. They’re disappointing.

On my last visit here I adopted Hermano Pedro as my amigo. He’s the only beatified person in Central America. If you dug through the cobwebby depths of this blog, you’d find ruminations about him. Since I don’t expect you to do that, I’ll repeat myself here.

He was born in Spain in 1626, worked with his impoverished parents as a shepherd, and came to Guatemala when he was 25. He bombed out on his attempts to become a priest because he couldn’t master Jesuit academics. I love him for that. Then he became a Franciscan. I like Franciscans because they have a rep for helping animals and the poor. That’s what Brother Peter did, founding a hospital and school for the destitute, as well as a homeless shelter. I don’t know his stand on animals. He died in Antigua when he was only 41.

There are two reasons I’m fond of him. One is that he and Dad have the same name. The second is the wall of crutches. Over hundreds of years, people have credited him with healing their maladies, including their inability to walk. That reminds me of Dad in the end; he needed Hermano Pedro, methinks. Those who’ve regained mobility have given their no-longer-needed crutches to Pedro in gratitude. Some of the crutches appear to be a couple hundred years old, made of leather and wood worn smooth. Today I noticed three pairs I hadn’t seen before. That’s because they’re very small: not even a foot tall from ground to armpit, and with room for two-inch-wide hands. Emmy’s size. Photos weren’t allowed there, although I didn’t know that last time I was here, so if you search on this blog you’ll find a picture of some of the crutches.

Pedro’s tomb is here in the church of San Francisco. Each time I’ve visited, there have been indigenous people praying with a vengeance, stroking the stone walls of the tomb, chanting, hanging colored, figurative candles on the iron bars around it, and sometimes sobbing. I shoved ten quetzales in the donation box, wrote a bilingual petition and placed in the basket at the foot of the tomb. The locals looked at me funny. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to do that—a gringa and a non-Catholic to boot—but I’m pretty sure Hermano Pedro wouldn’t have minded, and anyway the petition was for their benefit.

Writing this now I stumbled upon a wonderful book that has cool stuff about Hermano Pedro. (Migration miracle: faith, hope, and the undocumented journey by Jacqueline Maria Hagan, Harvard University Press, 2008.) It says that the guardian of the petition basket at San Francisco used to throw all the paper out at the end of each day, but now a woman methodically enters the information into a database and circulates the people’s pleas among several churches.

Here are my photos. I’m sorry they suck. They include pictures of four different earthquake-ruined churches and convents, plus some on-the-street photos. Ruins are for lovers. You stumble upon dozens of couples cuddling in nooks and niches and crannies. Mostly they’re just being affectionate, but occasionally there’s a pair trying to suck the insides out of the other, unconcerned that they’re making certain tourists Extremely Uncomfortable.

As always, much better when viewed large:

Tags: Guatemala

Hi, Maria. Here’s how you can listen to La Llorona, and hear your mother’s voice.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.