I have arrived. A three hour and forty five minute “red eye” flight brought me to Houston and then I’m guessing a 2-3 hour jaunt down to Guatemala City from there but I can’t say for sure since my face was plastered against the window in sleep until the very end when I caught view of the volcano rimmed capital as we landed. Either way, not a bad trip but I am sleep deprived. Donal, the taxi driver and owner of the casa where I am staying picks me up and we embark upon the 2 hour drive to the town of Comalapa where I will be volunteering with an organization called Long Way Home (a nonprofit started by a former peace corps volunteer, “that uses sustainable design and materials to construct self-sufficient schools that promote education, empoloyment, and environmental stewardship.” www.lwhome.com) Apparently Donal is in a hurry because he is going double the speed limit and honking at everyone. I can’t seem to wipe the deer in the headlights look off my face. Visual stimulus everywhere. I keep waiting for the five years of Spanish I took in high school to kick in but still it escapes me. We cover the basics though. And I mean, bare bone basics. Where I live, how many kids I have, what I do for work and vice versa. Donal finally gets me to comprende that it’s best we stop at one of the many American fast food chains along the way since they will be easier on my tummy. Taco Bell? Wendy’s? McDonalds? Carl’s Jr.? Right. We settle for Burger King with 2 armed guards manning the drive thru. Thankful to have an excuse not to painfully extract one more word from my Spanish 101 vocabulary, I quietly chomp on my King de Pollo and watch the sites fly by. Stray dogs everywhere. Hombres with cowboy hats on horses. Whole families of four or five dressed in traditional “trajes” speed by on motorcycles. Not one motorcycle per family member, mind you. One full family per motorcycle. Helmetless. Up “la montana” we climb, headed 7,000 feet above sea level surrounded by fields and fields of “maiz.” “Mucho maiz!” is all I can muster, and then I add, “Es muy bonita.” The chicken buses, as they call the public buses here, which are old converted US school buses, are in more of a rush than Donal as they throw caution to the wind and rumble around the mountain passes, darting in and out of our lane, and for the first time I have arrived in Guatemala, I start to fear for my life. Chicken bus indeed. Donal launches into a conversation about something that clearly excites him, but I am hanging by a thread. Finally, he says something about “Europa” and “bicycleta” and I get that he’s trying to tell me he likes to bike these mountains like the Tour de France. When I consider his driving, I am not surprised. We pull into his casa and I spend the rest of the day unpacking and exploring the streets. I am responsible for all my meals unless I pay Donal’s family to provide me with a dinner plate which I was so looking forward to this evening specifically until he told me, much to my growling tummy’s dismay, only Monday-Saturday so I’m on my own tonight. Leary of the cleanliness of the restaurants in town per Long Way Home’s advice, I dig up a small can of refried black beans, a strawberry yogurt and a few apples from the market where I’m pretty sure my deer in the headlights look cost me some bargaining points. Thankful to learn there is indeed hot water at Donal’s casa, (not at the volunteer house) I am now clean, literally full of beans and crawling into bed. 6:20am is breakfast and at 6:45 I will head over to the school to meet a few other volunteers who arrived today, get a proper tour of the school and town, and then get my marching orders for the week. Buenas Noches.
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Sitting in an airport bar with a lager waiting for my plane to depart. A weird mixture of feelings but mostly I want to vomit. I’m about to go live with a family of five in Guatemala for two weeks and the only Spanish that ever seems to come to the tip of my tongue is “Como estas?” Great, that should get us to minute two. Then what? Should I bring them gifts? An Oregon Ducks football? A Portland Timbers hat? What do they even want? What do they even need? I’m guessing a Sasquatch bumper sticker isn’t it. I decide on nothing, though I’m also guessing my charm alone isn’t it either.
Cheers to adventure. Cheers to the unknown. Cheers to the growth that comes only from this kind of unmistakable and excruciating discomfort. Here goes nothing. |
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