Saturday, November 15, 2008

Who´s scared? Me, scared? No, I ain´t scared.

I was scared earlier today, but not anymore.

¨For what gives value to travel is fear. It breaks down a kind of inner structure we have. One can no longer cheat- hide behind the hours spent at the office or at the plant (those hours we protest so loudly, which protect us so well from the pain of being alone)."
Albert Camus

I was scared when my taxi dropped me off at the busy bus stop in Guatemala City and I didn´t know which bus to take.
A man said, ¨You go to Panajachel, you take this bus."
He walked with me and took two of my bags in spite of my protests. He placed them on the top rack of the bus. As I sat down, I held on to one of my bags. He said, ¨"Oh, this one has to be up here too..." something about the police coming and checking, yada, yada. He spoke quickly. I didn´t get it. I went with it, although I smelled something fishy. He got off the bus. I took the same bag down and pulled out the most important thing in there-my passport. I put it in my safety pouch, around my neck, just in case. I also took out my Spanish grammar book, even though I was on alert and could hardly focus. I put the bag back up since the same guy is on the bus again.
Five minutes later, I see the man behind me moving around. I turn. He is taking my blue bag, the same one I had tried to hold on to. No time for thinking. I react. "Esta mio," I say loudly, over and over. "It´s mine, you jerk!" If I knew how to add the last part, I would have. I feel like a kindergartner fighting over a toy...yet, that is my frickin´bag you got there mister, so if I have to resort to being a kindergartner, resort I will. He places it on his seat and walks off the bus, right past me, clearly uncomfortable that he´d been caught. I take my toy back and put all my bags on the seat next to me. No one will separate me from them again, not if I can help it. I´ll scream and be rude and obnoxious if I have to. Heck, I´ll PCS them if I have to, but I learned my lesson. Having my bags right above me is not close enough for comfort. I need to be on them, next to them, attached to them like velcro.
I stay on alert, ready to snap at or bite anyone who tries to ´help´me in any way, as the bus weaves through traffic and picks up more and more passengers. By the time we leave the city, we´re packed like a can of sardines, no less than 3 people per seat...this is one of the popular chicken buses that most people use to travel throughout the country.
As we distance ourselves from the fumes of the city, I start to relax a bit and to notice the beautiful people around me. Mostly, they are Mayans wearing their indigenous clothing-women in bright turquoise and purple dresses with sashes, ribbons in their long, black hair. They are like princesses of the Earth, women who are clearly proud of who they are and happy to show it to the world. Thinking of all the prosecution these people have been through because of their heritage, in the hands of different regimes, it awes me how proud they are, how unafraid to say "This is who I am, like it or not." Instead of burying their history, after so many were killed during the revolution, these people wear it gloriously. As we get closer to Lake Atitlan, traditionally dressed men in colorful, patterned suits and cowboy hats come onto the bus. Although I´m still weary of the environment and not willing to take out my camera, I am amazed by the courage of these people in their multi-colored splendor.
On the boat on Lake Atitlan, the lest leg of my journey, I am one of 3 white people amongst around 40 indigenous princes and princesses. They laugh when I fall as I get on the boat. One of the girls helps me up. I´m laughing too. I feel closer to them, after the shared laughter, even though we are worlds apart in language, looks, and way of life.
I make it to San Marcos safely, all luggage intact. My ticket is overpriced, but I don´t even care at this point. I´m so grateful to have made it to my destination.
Paula shows me my room...a little pyramid bungalow in the meditation center Las Piramides. It´s a garden paradise, right on the edge of Lake Atitlan. There´s a Spanish school pretty much next door. Perfect. There is also a massage/healing center here which is owned by a Bulgarian woman. I´ll have to meet her. Something else to check out...there´s an arts center called Cambalacha which teaches kids of the villages in the area to sing, dance, paint, etc. They have an organic garden and possibilities to volunteer.
This evening, there was a basketball game in the center of San Marcos, played to loud, danceable music. It was a joy to dance and play capoeira with volunteers at Cambalacha and other travelers from the USA, France, Germany, Spain, and of course the locals. A few Mayan kids were attracted to the fun, dancing foreigners, and joined us in doing cartwheels. Perfect.
To me, the value of traveling lies not in the fear itself, which is essential and possibly inevitable...the value of traveling lies in the possibility for transformation which appears as we get psdy the fear. Getting over the fear is essential...wallowing in it for a long time is miserable and not very valuable. Yet, it´s possible to allow fear to teach us and shape us without letting it suffocate our hearts. Dancing is a great tool for that!



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1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi Vas,
Pishi!
Zeluwki
S mnogo obich
Eli
and don't be scared,
be precosios
Love!

10:57 AM  

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