How is it already week 11? How am I about to swear in as an honest-to-goodness volunteer in only 3 days? Where has the time gone? I’m sure I’ve talked about it before, but the distillation of time around here is truly awe-inspiring. It feels like forever since I last ate a Juicy Lucy at the Blue Door while sipping a craft brew that had both nuance and flavor. At the same time, I simply refuse to believe that I have now endured more than 70 frigid bucket baths, decimated entire generations of fried chicken, weathered countless stomach illnesses, and emerged both healthier and happier than when I started. It simply cannot have been three months since I stepped off the plane.
However, in that time I have come to learn things about myself that I never knew (or indeed, would have had cause to learn were I still in the United States). Even last week, while on my IDA (Independently Directed Activity) field training I found out three very important things all of which, at least in retrospect, were interrelated:
1) I handle myself pretty well even while uncomfortably close to gang warfare.
2) I can hike more than 20 miles, over rivers and mountain ranges, and emerge with enough energy to teach English to giggly middle school girls.
3) I am able to navigate even the most complicated bus schedules and routes in unfamiliar parts of Guatemala to wind up “accidentally” at beautiful lakesides for lunch while still returning to my host site by dark.
As some of you may remember, I went to the department of Huehuetenango in the northeast part of Guatemala to learn, for the second time, how volunteers live and behave themselves. I was stationed for the latter part of the week in a little town called Malacatancito (Malacas for short) about twenty or thirty minutes from the department capital, not-so-cleverly also named “Huehuetenango.” Kyle A. and I were stationed with a volunteer in the same program who’s a year ahead of us.
But on to gang violence: The three of us were at the supermarket buying all the groceries we’d need for the next few days (read: lots of pasta and Bacardí) barely thinking past that night’s meal. As we were passing through the checkout, the armed guard for the store slammed down the security gate, insulating the store from the outside world. The urgency and unexpectedness of the gesture surprised us; after all, we have been to many supermarkets over the last three months and never has the big steel screen been closed, preventing the entrance and exit of patrons.
A crowd began to form, and the guard explained what happened: He had seen a car pull up in the parking lot, guns being waved, and then shots fired. Not knowing what else to do, he did the only thing he could: He hid us.
When he opened the grate again a few minutes later, the lot was clear. Hesitantly the three of us stepped out into the growing dusk. A few hundred meters off we could see a phalanx of police officers with hulking automatic weapons engaged in some sort of assault-and-advance movements, the militaristic equivalent of leap frog. Even after playing years and years of Modern Warfare 2 (thanks, Will), you don’t get used to seeing futuristic weapons that spit death at 30 odd rounds per second.
“We should probably get out of here,” we all agreed simultaneously. Of course, being Peace Corps volunteers (or almost, anyway), we have no private transportation. We had to wait for the bus virtually on that same corner. The crowd of curious civilians that was starting to tentatively ring the police suddenly broke and began sprinting towards us. Something had scared them into getting the hell out of there. Oh God.
“Perhaps it would be more prudent to wait for the bus a little farther away,” we again decided as one. We began to jog, then run farther from the activity. The army began to fill out the already impressive ranks of police, passing us going as they sped towards the warzone. Humvees of camouflaged soldiers sat grimly while the standing gunner, using his M-60 for support, acted as guardian and scout.
The bus came after what felt like ages, and we practically leapt in. On the radio, the police chief for Huehuetenango was issuing a city wide alert about the violence that had just occurred, and would likely increase. “Huehue doesn’t abide Zetas,” he said, “and anyone in the area should find an excuse to get out of there. The drug lines flowing through the city and into Mexico [a few dozen kilometers north] will not be tolerated.”
My mother called, even as the emergency address continued. “Hi honey, I’m at the GAP getting that pair of jeans we talked about that I’m going to put in your care package. Is it alright if they are prefaded, or will that be too informal to wear to work?”
“Hey Mom; now’s not really a good time. Can I call you back?”
Of course, as soon as we were a safe distance outside the city, the three of us were suddenly aware of the spastic muscle control that an adrenaline rush always brings. We gripped our seats a little less tightly. We were out, and lucky for it. Had we finished at the grocery store five minutes earlier who knows what might have happened? Had the bus come five minutes later and who can say?
But such is life here; we do all we can to prepare for emergencies, but when they come all you can do is tell your mom that pants are not your priority at the moment.
The next day, my cardiovascular system was again tested. We were going to hike to one of our host’s farther schools, about four hours distant. Of course, to get there we had to ford three rivers and summit three mountain ranges. It could have been the impossible task of a fairy tale had we, you know, only had to read about it. We hitchhiked when we could, sometimes with an NGO going a mile up the road, or a teacher who’d take us as far as the next T-junction, but 95% was walked with the plodding feet of young adults eager to see a place where no other aid workers had the cojones to get to.
We awoke at 4:30am and were on the road by 5, trying to get as far as we could before we got baked by the merciless sun. Two backpacks full of water, a pound of granola, and a dozen cookies were all that we took. Another IDA group, joining us for most of the way, packed similarly.
We got to the school at around 9:30, watched and critiqued a health lesson, played soccer for almost an hour with the students, and then were on the road headed back again before 11.
We estimated that we walked between 20 and 25 miles over 8 full hours of hiking. Exhausted but exhilarated, blistered but satisfied, we took a nap for a few hours and then hoofed it a mile or two out of town again to work on the secondary project of our host: Teaching English at a subsidized girls’ school. I slept well that night, to put it mildly.
Saturday morning Kyle and I left Malacas, with the objective of getting back to our respective host sites by dark. Four busses later we found ourselves in Panajachel, a trendy tourist-destination-but-also-hippy-commune sort of town on the banks of Lake Atitlán. “We deserve burgers,” we decided, “with lots of cheese, and bacon if possible.” After all, we walked a marathon the other day. No big deal.
We found our burgers, the most delicious that I’ve encountered since coming here, and enjoyed each other’s company over a beer that turned into two as we migrated closer to the water.
I’m not sure if you’re familiar with Lake Atitlán, but it’s one of the most impressive bodies of water I’ve ever seen, and I feel pretty confident in my estimation of lakes coming from a state with 10,000 of them. The graceful slope of volcanoes, their flattened peaks rising thousands of feet above the mist at their bases, commanded my attention even while feeling the bubbles of our icy beers wash over our dry tongues.
A more idyllic spot for a beer cannot be found, but time waits for no PCT, and less than two hours after we got there Kyle and I were again on a bus headed back home. Four transfers later and we were there, barely minutes before the sun set. Damn, we’re good.
This installment is getting long, so I suppose I should wrap it up. A few notes before I go: As I alluded to earlier, this week is full of goings on:
Wednesday I find out my permanent host site, where I’ll spend the next two years of my life.
Friday afternoon I officially swear into the Peace Corps at the US Ambassador’s mansion in Guatemala City.
Of course, neither of those will be the most exciting day of the week: Sunday is my 23rd birthday.
PS. As usual, please find the accompanying photos here: https://picasaweb.google.com/sigrinj/Week11?authkey=Gv1sRgCITcm4Xj65u-hQE#
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