Not So Great Expectations

Training above all else was a lesson in realism. Mixed in between learning how to say, “Help me! I’m bleeding,” in Spanish and not to throw tortillas to dogs (while seemingly a brilliant solution to rid oneself of a stack of the unwanted staple, this is apparently very offense to Mayans), we were constantly told not to expect to see much results from our service. Before anyone starts contacting his congressman about the ineffectiveness of Peace Corps, I should note that this ‘warning’ if you will is a much-needed reminder for all new volunteers.

Like many others working in development, we (I am speaking for all Peace Corps Volunteers here and am fully aware I am overstepping my bounds) come to our countries as a bit of idealists, whether we would like to admit it or not. We have college degrees and great ideas and are just itching to save the world. However, over time dealing with that unpredictable factor called the human being, a large portion of those in the development world become jaded. The people you are trying to help don’t care or don’t know what they really need as much as you do (because Americans always know best…that’s sarcasm). Cultural differences lead to misunderstandings and slow, if not no, progress. Locals see you as a big dollar sign and expect things to be given to them without any effort of their own.

Knowing what lies ahead, holding onto idealism can only lead to a miserable and frustrating experience that has the propensity to be frustrating even without it. To that end, snuffing any idealist tendencies might very well be the most important function of training. It is all about preparing us to go to our sites with controlled, realist expectations (I know, Jenna, me and my ‘expectation theory’). That said, regardless of however frustrating working here might get or however many times I might contemplate quitting, I am ready to give the next two years helping to improve the quality of life for a group of women weavers here in Tactic. And I am sure in the process I will be changed as much, if not more, than the women with which I am working.

Official PCVs at last!

After almost three months of Spanish instruction, technical training, cultural classes, safety and security orientation, and medical sessions, I am finally an official Peace Corps Volunteer! Twenty-four of my fellow trainees and I swore an oath to the United States on July 19th and became the newest group of PCVs here in Guatemala.

With our host families, Spanish teachers, technical trainers, Peace Corps staff, and the highest ranking official, Assistant Secretary of State for Western Hemisphere Affairs Thomas Shannon, to ever speak at a PC/G swearing-in all present at Porta Hotel Antigua (the ceremony usually takes place at the Ambassador’s residence in the capital, but he was out of the country at the time), it was quite a proud moment pledging to spend the next two years of my life serving Guatemala.

Millón Q Caballos

By far the best connection I made during my three-month stay here was with the owner of a huge finca with 50 horses. Kelly and I happened upon the farm one day while taking a walk on the outskirts of town. After a short chat with the security guard (who we discovered is the host father of another volunteer), we were met at the gate by the head horse trainer. Within minutes I was on the phone with the owner negotiating a price to ride his horses. Now, I am always excited about the opportunity to ride a horse, but the thing is, these aren’t just any horses. They are Andalusians flown in from Spain, bred and trained for competition, and worth more than one million Quetzales each (over $130,000). Moreover, the owner had never let anyone besides his trainers ride his horses before we arrived.

For a mere 70Q apiece (less than $10), the trainer took Kelly and I for over an hour ride on trails through the property. The trails passed through forests, avocado orchards, and fields of flowers for export. It was gorgeous and exhilarating galloping through the hillsides on an absolutely amazing horse.

Today is my final day in town, and I went out for one last ride before leaving (hopefully not last overall—I have the security guard’s number to call to set up more rides when I am back in the area). Despite getting caught in a downpour, the ride was just as exciting as the first. At one point, we climbed straight up a hillside on a trial no wider than the horse. (After that my horse was very much ready to buck me.) My goal now is to convince the owner to loan me one of his Andalusians for two years…not very probable, but worth a try.

The Steed

Suspicious

Since returning from Tactic, there has been an alarming trend of dogs dying in the street outside of my house. Within a week, I have seen three. One was actually in the process of dying, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. The other two were fly infested and bloated lying on the side of the road. What I find surprising is not that the dogs are dying, but that the bodies are being hauled away so quickly (over the course of about three weeks, I watched the decomposition of a dog carcass left on the road between my town and the training center).

The deaths do raise some questions, however, and I have a suspicion that my town is undergoing the apparently common Guatemalan practice of controlling the chucho population by setting out diseased meat. I am sure every animal lover is cringing at the thought of such a cruel procedure, but after putting up with mangy, nasty street dogs for the past three months, I honestly think it is a great idea. As long as they keep disposing of the carcasses in a timely manner, I am all for it.

Exhibit A

Exhibit A

Tactic

In the states, were you considering moving to a new city it would be a rather long process of weighing job options, researching homes and neighbors, checking crime rates and available services, etc. In contrast Peace Corps’ version of moving is visiting an assigned site for three days to secure housing for the next three months, to meet the important officials in town, to introduce yourself to the people in the organization with which you will be working, and to locate the nearest helicopter landing pad…all conducted in a foreign language.

Fortunately with the assistance of a very helpful volunteer in the site (thank you Anna!), the short visit went extremely well, and I am very excited to be spending my Peace Corps experience in Tactic, Alta Verapaz (despite the “security risk”, I have decided I don’t want to refer to my location as “my site” for the next two years).

Settled in a valley at 4,800 feet amongst the mountains of Sierra de Chamá, Tactic (pronounced tack·teek) is situated on the highway from Guate to Coban. It is a small town of about 5,000 people whose inhabitants are mainly Poqomchí speaking Mayans. There is running water, electricity, a post office, frequent transportation, a fairly large market, and a plethora (yes, I know what that word means) of internet cafes. Tactic even has a “water park” of sorts called Chamché, which is fed by a fresh spring flowing out of the mountains. However, with an annual average temperature of 68˚ in an area where it is said that it rains 13 months out of the year (when it is not raining there is “chipi-chipi” [drizzle]), I don’t think I will be swimming that often. The abundance of rain gives life to an absolutely gorgeous landscape with vegetation ranging from banana trees to pine trees all a vibrant almost neon green color.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I am going to be working with an association of Poqomchí indigenous women weavers called Nu’Kem. There are about 150 women in the association with the majority of them living in about seven small aldeas surrounding Tactic and Tamahú. The women use a traditional back strap loom to make a variety of woven products to sell to tourists, including placemat settings, pillow covers, bedspreads, purses, table runners, shawls, and scarves. I was extremely impressed with the items they are already making and am excited to venture into new products. My job will be to find them new markets in Guatemala and overseas as well as to teach them business and administration skills. During my visit, I had the opportunity to meet with the board of directors of the association and also visit a few of the weavers out in the aldeas. The women seem as excited to have me there, as I am to be there. In a little more than a week, I will move out to site and get to work!

My soon to be home

Ayudante Wars

The promised post about my site visit is on the way, but in the interim until I find the time to write it, I thought I would share a little incident that occurred on the trip home from Alta Verapaz.

Without any governing body organizing public transportation here and without any differences between one camioneta and another (except maybe the paint job), the only way for a camioneta driver to make more money is to pick up more passengers. And the only way for a camioneta to pick up more passengers is to be the first one to pull into a bus stop or on the side of the road where people are waiting. For this reason, camionetas race, cut each other off, and pass each other on curves, adding a little more excitement to their already dangerous driving habits.

On my journey back to the training center, after taking a pullman into Guate and a taxi from the pullman office to the bus terminal (we are banned from taking any intracity buses in Guate because there are an estimated 200 armed robberies a day), I boarded a camioneta headed towards Antigua. Still within the city limits of Guate and far from capacity, my driver seized the opportunity to increase his passengers by cutting off another camioneta headed for a large group of people waiting at a stop.

In a cultural defined by machismo, it was no surprise that the ayudantes from the two competing camionetas disembarked, and a heated argument commenced. As the shouting match intensified in the street, my driver rummaged through the glove compartment and pulled out a machete (mental pictures of a school bus driver in the states wielding a giant knife to control unruly children were running through my head). In the time it took for my ayudante to retrieve the weapon, the other camioneta had already started to drive away. Emboldened by his machete and unwilling to let a perfect situation to display his manliness slip by, my ayudante ran and jumped on the moving bus. Chest puffed and brandishing his knife, he stayed on the camioneta long enough to establish his male dominance before returning to ours.

Despite how it may sound, the incident was far more entertaining than frightening (perhaps the other ayudante feels differently). Providing a soundtrack of gasps and ahhs, us passengers watched the confrontation unfold from the safety of our seats, almost like watching an action movie but without the popcorn. Just to be on the safe side, though, I made sure to flash a big sweet smile as the ayudante collected my fare.

Chicken Buses

With Peace Corps’ ban on operating motorized vehicles, public transportation it will be for the next two years. Welcome to the joy of riding on chicken buses.

Camionetas, or “chicken buses” as know by English speakers, are old U.S. school buses driven down through Mexico and given a second and more exciting chance at life here in Guatemala. Spruced up with brightly colored paint jobs (some might venture to say gaudy) and personalized with religious sayings, depictions of seductive women, drawings of cartoon characters, or some combination of the three, these former carriers of the youth of America are resurrected to haul the masses of Guatemala. And the masses they do haul. Rows that once sat four children now hold six adults, and those not lucky enough to find a seat stand packed into the aisle. There is no such thing as a camioneta being ‘full’. In fact the only time I have been on a camioneta when it didn’t stop for somebody waiting on the side of the road was on the way to Antigua the other day when the driver refused to pick up a clown (I was really relieved by this having heard a story of a volunteer being robbed at gun point by a clown outside of the PC office in Guate…really, it’s okay to laugh). Jam-packed far above the recommended capacity and operated as if the driver was vying for a spot on the NASCAR circuit, I am sure these buses experience more wear and tear during one trip on the winding road from Guate to Antigua than they did during their whole time in service in the states.

Every camioneta has two main actors working in close concert: the driver and the ayudante, literally “helper”. The driver’s job is to get the bus from point A to point B in the shortest amount of time as possible, and he also gets to control the selection and volume of the music (painfully loud seems to be the usual preference). The ayudante’s job (when he is not hanging off the side of the bus making catcalls at women on the sidewalk) is to announce the destination of the camioneta at stops (this is always shouted in rapid bursts of three, “Antigua! Antigua! Antigua!), to strap people’s belongings to the roof luggage racks, to hurry passengers on and off the bus, and, his most important duty, to collect the fares.

One would think that collecting the bus fares would be a fairly uncomplicated and straightforward process—when you get on the bus simply hand your money to the ayudante. Not so. Instead of asking for money upon boarding, the ayudante waits until the trip is underway to walk the aisle to collect the fares. This too would be a simple procedure were it not for the fact that the vast majority of the time the camionetas are so full it is nearly impossible to move. Thus commences the ‘dance of the ayudante’, featuring a stout man squeezing through small spaces. He sucks in here, forces a leg into an open space there, and wiggles his way through the masses amassing a wad of dirty cash. The performance is repeated as he returns to the front of the bus to take up his post hanging out the door. Ahh, what I wouldn’t give to be an ayudante for a day.