Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Images of Lake Atitlan and Las Piramides






1.) One of the many views of Lake Atitlan from the town of San Marcos

2.) Doing karma yoga on Sunday morning...hiking up to the waterfall and cleaning up trash on the way down. Mucha basura!


3.&4- The majestic fog of Lake Atitlan.

5.) My little home pyramid for the past two weeks..

will be saying farewell to the pyramids this Friday and going on to the mountain town of Xela/Quetzeltenango to focus on Spanish, volunteering, and salsa dancing!

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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Thursday, November 13, 2008

(re-) Learning to trust





























If today doesn't inspire me to resurrect this blog and write again, I don't know what will. What a day! It started out in Austin, TX at 4:30 in the morning. The best sister in the world and her wonderful boyfriend drove me to the airport, although they could have easily made me walk for getting such an early flight!
What could have been 3-hour direct flight to Guatemala City became a full-day journey, bouncing me through Memphis and Miami before spitting me out in Guatemala City. Ah, the lengths I would go to just to save a hundred bucks...
On the last stretch of the journey, there was a movie about a female author who was writing about this adventure hero, Alex Rover, a man who never seemed to be afraid to try new things. Alex was always diving into risk and danger head first, worrying about how to wiggle out of the mess he'd created later. The ironic thing was that the author herself, Alexandra, was freaked out to leave her own apartment. She was terrified of the world...until she gets a plea for help from a little girl who's stranded on an island (a high-tech, fancy-schmancy island with wi-fi access). Although petrified, Alexandra sets out to find the island and help the girl. Along the way, she learnes to trust, even when things aren't going her way. She finds she's actually capable of living a life of adventure, not just writing about it.
One of the reasons I love to travel is that, along the way, I remember to trust. Traveling itself forces me to trust, actually, whether I want to or not. There are just too many variables that are out of my control and I just have to trust that, whatever happens, it'll be alright in the end.
So, I'm in Guatemala City...I've made it through declarations and passport control and I'm waiting for my one little checked-in bag to appear on the carousel. This is the same bag that I got for free, by applying for a delta credit card. All shapes, colors, and sizes of bags show up, get claimed by their owners, and happily move on to their next destination. After more than half an hour, my bag is nowhere to be seen, as are the people I shared the flight with-gone. I feel like a third grader whose nanny forgot to pick her up from school, all alone, whimpering softly. A soothing voice appears in my head..."just trust." It's been saying that for the last half hour, and the five hours before that. What are my options? I always have options-I could break down and pout and whine, or I can trust. I go and ask the airport people if anyone has seen my little, black bag. Nope, they haven't , but I should talk to that lady over there.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for a little black bag...come from Miami." me
"Did you have connections within the states?" her
"Yes, Austin, Memphis, Miami, Guatemala." me
"Ah, yes, they didn't transfer your bag-it's still in Miami. It will come tomorrow, but we'll give you $55 for emergency purposes." her
Well, at least I know where my bag is now. Whoa, $55, that's probably worth more than the content of my bag! Hey, you can leave my bags wherever you'd like, anytime. I didn't say that.
She introduced me to Isaac, who happened to be a Mormon. I told him I live in Utah-we got to talking about the temple and his missionary friends who are from Utah. He gave me a little emergency bag with a t-shirt, toothbrush & paste, deodorant (it's fair to say that I was pretty stinky at this point) and any toiletries I may need. What service! Thank you, TACA airlines...I'm impressed.
A while later, I met my couchsurfing host, Harold. He was born in Guatemala, but lived most of his life in Princeton, one of my favorite towns ever...we shared happy memories of Princeton while driving through Guatemala city. Harold has started his own home-based English-teaching business for executives in the city...classrooms double up as bedrooms for couch surfers. I met one of his students, Ricardo, a man who works for the second largest coffee company in Guatemala. He reports directly to the big boss, the CEO, who happens to be Japanese. Ricardo was having a conversation with Bill and Betty-the retired couple from Minnesota who's also couchsurfing with Harold. They have a friend whose daughter's in Peace Corps, Bulgaria right now, in a little town called Lom. Lom happens to be the place my grandpa was born. Small world. I trust.