Sorry this post is coming late. It’s not my fault; someone (drug lords?) cut the fiber optic cable connecting the Peace Corps center to the internet people in Guatemala City. To make up for it, I promise that this post is going to be good. Really good. Perhaps. A lot has happened in the last week, much of which I’m still trying to process. Because it happened first, I’ll start with the good stuff.
Thursday night I received a call from one of the Peace Corps staff asking me how I thought my Spanish classes were going. I thought this a bit odd, and immediately started to answer as ambivalently and diplomatically as possible until I could figure out just why they wanted to know. Mid-training reviews weren’t for another week, so this clearly was something different. “Um, they’re going well, I guess. I think that I’m doing alright, but of course there’s still a lot left to learn.” After circling around in such a fashion for far longer than was necessary, I finally decided I was being stupid and just decided to go the “mature” route: “Can I ask why you want to know?”
“Oh, it’s just that your Spanish teacher called us and said that you were doing really well. Perhaps formal language classes are no longer the best way for you to learn. How would you like to do an independent study project during the time when you’d ordinarily be with him?”
I was stunned. I had placed into Intermediate-High (level 6 of 9, with 1 being not-a-word and 9 being a native speaker). I have of course noticed that my Spanish has gotten loads better since coming here, but she was saying that I was essentially fluent, that I had learned all I could from grammar classes and that all that was left was for me to do something in the community that would allow me to practice my speaking ability and increase my confidence. I told her that I’d do it, and she gave me the weekend to choose a focus.
I found out later that this is slightly less rare than it sounds. Anyone who achieves Advanced-Medium (level 8) and higher are given the choice to work independently. Allison, another trainee with me in San Lorenzo, got the same call, along with several others in our training cohort. Still, I’m not going to short-change myself. I’ve been working my ass off to learn, speaking with my host-family for hours during the day and studying at night, and it feels pretty good to be recognized for it.
After a comprehensive game of Twenty Questions with another staff member, I found out the bounds of what is an acceptable study. Apparently, a “critical investigation of the Guatemalan agronomy” (read: sampling the coffee in Antigua) does not pass muster, but “independent study” did not necessarily preclude the possibility of working with a partner. I’ve been talking with another trainee, Rebecca, who lives in a neighboring town, and we’ve decided to investigate issues of domestic violence. Our host families put spousal abuse at around 70%, and Peace Corps estimates it’s closer to 80 or 90% in some areas. With such a high incidence, it seems quite likely that we’ll run into it in at our permanent sites; it would be nice to know what the resources are when confronting it. It’s still in its infancy of course, but since there are few, if any, official organizations in the area that work with survivors of domestic violence, we’re expecting to speak to other groups that may run across it. Puestos de Salud (Community Health Centers), police departments, divorce attorneys (women leaving their husbands are rare here, but it does occasionally happen), and survivor accounts are the sources we’re going to tap first. Given the timeframe we have, this will of course not be a hugely in-depth exploration, but we’re supposed to give a presentation about it at the end of training. It would be really great if we had useful things to say. More as it develops.
The weekend was great. Our final Spanish class was in Antigua on Friday, where we were essentially big tourists (but feeling outrageously superior to “normal” tourists because, after all, we’re Peace Corps). Just like the last time I went, I spent greatly outside my means—this time both a morning snack and lunch, which totaled about $12—but I felt profound gastronomic contentment, so I think it was probably worth it.
Saturday we went to the Peace Corps center, where a Mayan priestess demonstrated a traditional religious ceremony. I wish I could describe it better, but most of it was in Kaqchiquel, one of the 20+ Mayan languages. Further, I was more tired than I’d like to admit since I’d had to wake up at 5am to get there. I eventually understood that she was praying to 20 different energies (Gods?) who are in charge of daily events, using offerings of tobacco, candles, sugar, rum, incense, and a tarry brown solid that may have been a large brick of chocolate. It was really interesting, especially from an anthropological standpoint, and I hope to see more of such ceremonies when I get to site.
Sunday was really the only bad part of the week, though “bad” is almost certainly not the right word. It was melancholic, odd, and violent, but perhaps not truly “bad.” It was the Corrida de las Cintas (Running of the Ribbons), which originally sounded like a fairly dainty event; I thought it might be the Guatemalan equivalent of decorating a Maypole.
But May Day it is not.
It started out innocently enough. 20 or so men on horses took turns galloping at full tilt at a clothesline strung across San Lorenzo’s main street, a pencil clutched firmly in their dominant hand. Along the line were dozens of short ribbons with metal rings tied to them, each approximately one inch in diameter. Using the pen as a lance, they tried to put it through the ring, tearing the ribbon from the line while charging past. The cowboy with the most ribbons by the end was the victor, and the recipient of prizes which included leather goods, cash, and liquor. It was quite fun the watch, especially since the crowd lining the street got very into it and would “ooh” and “ahh” when someone made a particularly skillful pass. Eventually, though, the ribbons had all been plucked from the line, and it was time for the main event.
I had some forewarning for what was coming. My family had explained it to me, but I had been so incredulous that I didn’t fully believe that such a thing could actually occur. Not there on main street. Not virtually outside my bedroom window. Not in San Lorenzo.
The festival organizers led out the duck, which squawked resignedly, as if it knew the fate that was to befall it. The men tied it by its little duck ankles to the line, letting it dangle above the street upside down. Another man began to grease up its little duck neck.
“Aw shit,” the duck squawked again.
And so it began. Each of the 20 cowboys took turns charging towards it, their hands empty this time. As they flew by, they tried to grab the duck’s head. Like with the ribbons, this event would not be over until someone had torn it from the line. When someone was able to grasp the head, it was too greased for them to hold on. As they galloped past, the line would become taut, then slingshot the duck back to its original place as it slid out of their hand.
Cowboy after cowboy, round after round, the event continued. The duck didn’t die until the middle of the third round—after more than 60 attempts to decapitate it. Finally, at the beginning of the fifth round, attempt number 82 or 83, the head could take no more and made its escape. Pin wheeling beak over eye sockets, it flew twenty feet into the air before falling to the cobble stones below. It bounced wetly a few times before finally coming to rest.
People cheered, the victor was congratulated, and prizes were distributed. The festival was done.
I couldn’t figure out what to think. On one hand, it was a cultural event that clearly held meaning in the community. On the other, it seemed horribly barbaric and unnecessarily cruel to my PETA-loving sensibilities. At the very least they could have killed the duck first, sparing it the pain and ignominy of having to wait for its neck to leisurely rip in half. It seemed, at least to me, that life was not a necessary perquisite to the actual sport. I suppose, though, that I’m superimposing my own moral code onto the fabric of Guatemalan culture. In my defense, I’ve been taught that complete moral relativity is both a non-sequitur and often morally reprehensible, so does the fact that I can’t achieve it really make me a bad anthropologist?
I guess, after a couple days of reflection, I’m glad I saw it, though I will be quite content to never see it again. In many ways it’s like so much of my time here so far in Guatemala: Thoroughly foreign, simultaneously disquieting and intriguing, and occasionally difficult to get through. I still maintain that I love it here, but I will be quite pleased to forego any other animal-mutilation-for-the-
Oh! One last thing before I sign off: I found out my Field-Based Training site, where I’ll be basically shadowing real, live, volunteers in my technical program (Healthy Schools) for a week starting this coming Sunday. The site’s called Olintepeque (Oh-lynn-teh-PEH-kay), and it’s in the department of Quetzaltenango, in the western highlands. I don’t know what my internet situation will be while there, so don’t be surprised if I don’t post next Tuesday. If that happens, I promise to make up for it by writing a double one during week 7.
PS: As per usual, I’ve uploaded some photos (and a short video clip) taken over the course of the week. As a warning, some of the photos are a little graphic. If you don’t want to see a duck being tortured, tread carefully through this week’s selection. For those of you that do, they can be found here https://picasaweb.google.com/
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