Irony

Earlier today someone commented on how long and beautiful my eyelashes are, and just moments ago I burnt about a fourth of them off after being engulfed in flames spewing from my oven. How long does it take for eyelashes (and eyebrows) to grow back?

Racism

While waiting for President Colom to arrive in Tactic last Sunday, I was approached by a reporter from the capital. Noticing that I was obviously a foreigner, she asked, “Did you arrive yesterday or today?”

“Actually I arrived over a year ago. I live here.”

Apparently with my camera inside the roped off area, she assumed I was an international reporter in town to cover the Presidential visit. (A Guatemalan president visiting a rural community within the country isn’t exactly international headline material, unless, sadly, some tragic mob trampling or massacre should occur during the event. But this blog post is not going to be a critic of what the media deems newsworthy in developing countries.)

The reporter asked me where I was from, and I after I said the United States, she took the opportunity to tell me about her trips to New York to visit her siblings and to drop the few poorly pronounced words in English that she knew.

I am not sure how or why the conversation progressed to where it did, but in the midst of talking about upstate New York and the changing seasons in the US, the reporter started on the subject of indigenous people.

Staring out into the crowd of Poqomchi’ women, she mused, “Look at all those inditos [a very offensive term in Guatemala that literally means “little Indians”]. They are like your pieles rojas [redskins].”

Completely flabbergasted by her use of language, I simply sat there with a blank look on my face. She took my expression as a sign that I didn’t understand her, so she continued.

“You know, the pieles rojas, the inditos in the United States that you all killed.”

I was still speechless, and she went on.

“You know these inditos here think they are ancestors of the Mayan, but they aren’t. The Mayan were mathematicians and astronomers, and these people are just lazy and ignorant. They aren’t even a race. They’re a sub-race.”

By this point I had snapped out of my shocked stupor, and I excused myself from her presence to go sit in the shade.

I have heard my fair share of racist comments from Ladinos in Guatemala talking about the indigenous people here but none so offensive and so assuredly stated. There was no spite or malice in her voice. She made her derogatory remarks as if she was commenting on the weather—passionless and matter-of-factly.

I wish I could say this woman’s racist speech was an anomaly in Guatemala, but as I said, it wasn’t the first time someone has belittled indigenous people in front of me. And the reason people feel like they can deride indigenous people in my company is because they don’t think it is racism. To them it is fact: Indigenous people are lazy. Indigenous people are stupid. Indigenous people are untrustworthy. Indigenous people just look for handouts.

In the past I have confronted people who have made comments such as those, but with the reporter I chose just to walk away. I could have said, “Actually ‘we’ didn’t kill all the ‘pieles rojas.’ You are sitting with one right now.” Or, “The indigenous people in Guatemala have been oppressed and discriminated against throughout the history of the country by racist people like yourself and are therefore in the disadvantaged position they are in now.” But I didn’t. There was no point to even engage in a conversation with that woman. I was not going to change her opinions that she so firmly believes to be true—that indigenous people are worthless and ignorant.

But she was partly correct; there are ignorant indigenous people in Guatemala. And there are ignorant Ladinos here too. Just as there are ignorant Americans, and ignorant Europeans, and ignorant Asians, and ignorant Africans. Ignorance is neither exclusive nor inclusive to any race, ethnicity or nationality. But I’ll always use the word “ignorant” to describe anybody who is racist…like that ignorant reporter.

Feliz Navidad

¡Les deseo a todos y todas una muy feliz Navidad y un próspero Año Nuevo que sean lleno de dicha, paz, salud y bendiciones!

A Greasy Christmas

The Municipal Office of Culture and Sports sponsored an afternoon of children’s activities for Christmas. Besides the staple crowd pleasers of busting piñatas and sack races, there were also two other interesting events: a contest to catch a greased piglet with a string of fireworks tied to its hind leg and a contest to climb a greased pole to grab the prize money attached on top.

Nothing says Christmas like a tub of lard and dangerous activities for the kiddies.

Even though the piglet was nearly dismembered as the children fought to win it, and I had to catch a small boy who fell off the greased pole, neither child nor animal was injured during the course of the day’s events. ¡Gracias a Dios! But if this had taken place in the states, I am sure lawsuits by angry parents and PITA would currently be impending.

The greased pig.

The mayor with the winner of the greased pig.

Attaching Q500 ($66) to the top of a greased pole.

Team effort to reach the money.

Stuck on a greased pole.

The final attempt before nightfall.

President Colom in Tactic

The crowd waiting to get into the school.
Women patiently waiting for their Mi Familia Progresa payment.
Colom arriving in the Presidential helicopter.

Tactic's Mayor, Hugo, with President Colom and his wife.

A word of thanks.

President Colom addressing the crowd.

Solidaridad.

Christmas gifts for the children of Tactic.

Gift baskets of bread (from Hugo's bakery) for the President and the Ministers.

Visita Presidencial

The President of Guatemala, Álvaro Colom, made a visit to Tactic this afternoon in conjunction with the implementation of his new “Mi Familia Progresa” (My Family Progresses) social program. Mi Familia Progresa has a Q270 million ($36 million) budget and the help and support of USAID. Through the Mi Familia Progresa program, Guatemalan families with children under the age of 15 having been identified as living in extreme poverty in the targeted poorest municipalities of Guatemala will receive 300 Quetzales a month (~$40), granted that their children attend school and complete required check-ups at the local health center.

Thousands and thousands of selected Tactiqueños (almost exclusively indigenous people) were gathered outside a local school since 6 a.m. waiting for their first payment. Banrural, a Guatemalan bank with the largest presence in rural parts of the country, is in charge of allocating the Mi Familia Progresa money. Since it is believed that women will be more apt to use the money for its intended purpose, the payments are being given to the mothers of the families. The bank employees and community leaders had all the women lined up by their aldea or caserío in an orderly fashion. I have never seen such an organized event in Guatemala.

I got to the school around 9 a.m., but Colom didn’t arrive in his helicopter until nearly 3 in the afternoon. Since I work with people in the Tactic Muni and because I am a friend of our mayor, Hugo, I had some special privileges during the visit. Hugo appointed me as his personal photographer, so I was allowed to stay within the roped off area to take pictures of the President and the Ministers who came with him.

After the Presidential entourage touched down in their two helicopters in an adjacent soccer field, the group made its grand entrance to the music of the marimba to start the event (although I am sure the majority of the people were much more interested in receiving Q300 than seeing the President). First a couple of the Ministers spoke, then Hugo gave a few words and presented Señor Presidente Álvaro Colom.

Colom sang the praises of Mi Familia Progresa and worked to dispel any criticisms and fears about the program (including that it was the government’s plan to register children so that they can later be stolen). He said he hoped the hearts of the program’s critics would be opened over the holiday season to realize its true value. I definitely would not count myself as a critic of Mi Familia Progresa, but I am skeptical of simply writing checks to families every month as a solution to poverty when the Guatemalan educational system in and of itself is in shambles. But I am hopeful that with proper and vigilant oversight that the program will be beneficial (in its intended areas of education and health) to poor families in Tactic.

Guatemala is a country full of political division and very much lacking in political ideology. Most Guatemalans will oppose someone, not because of his/her policies, but because of his/her party, of which there are more than a dozen. I felt the best part of Colom’s speech was when he said, “Poverty has no political affiliation. Poverty exists in all parts of our country, and it is our charge as the government to work to alleviate it.” I think Colom’s words can be extended to a macro level to say:

Poverty has no national affiliation. Poverty exists in all parts of our world, and it is our charge as human beings to work to alleviate it.

Something to ponder over the holiday season.

Desfile Navideño

This afternoon was Tactic’s Christmas parade sponsored by the local savings and loan cooperative. The parade had a handful of Santas and some girls dressed as elves, but other than that it seemed as if people just raided a costume closet and dressed in whatever they could find. It was entertaining.

Bikers leading the parade.
Santa and a gorilla.

A local pharmacy throwing out free medicine instead of candy.

Pollo Campero with penguins.

Vikings and a rabbit?

Vandals?

A frog and a chipmunk?

Satan and "Lil' Red"?

Enciclopedia de la Mujer

I saw this set of Enciclopedia de la Mujer (Women’s Encyclopedia) in the house of my first three-day host family during training.

What subjects other than beauty, decorating, health and hygiene, vacations and free time, the home, and the family does a woman need to be knowledgeable about?

Mom, do you think you could find me a set for Christmas? I have much to learn.

Great Balls of Fire

Below is a short clip of some of the bolas de fuego action in Tactic. Hopefully, when time permits, I’ll put together an extended version of the footage. This clip includes one of the numerous times I got hit with a fireball. When I turned around to see a flaming bola on the ground is because I got pegged in the back with it.

Bolas de Fuego

December 7th was Quema del Diablo (Burning of the Devil) in Guatemala during which Guatemaltecos throw their trash and other unwanted items out in the street and set them on fire to burn the devil out of their homes.

In conjunction with the celebration, Tactiqueños have their own special cultural tradition called Bolas de Fuego (Balls of Fire) on December 8th. The bolas de fuego event basically consists of young men in town throwing and kicking fireballs at each other. And, yes, it is as crazy and dangerous as it sounds.

In past years both the municipal building and the police station have been set on fire during the bolas de fuego, so as a precautionary measure for this year, truckloads of extra police officers were brought in all armed with guns to shoot canisters of tear gas. They formed a protective barrier around the police station and the hoards of townspeople who showed up to watch the event.

With all the problems in the past, every year there is always some speculation as to whether the bolas will actually take place. Amid rumors that the powers that be were not going to allow the event to happen last year, I went to Antigua for my birthday and missed it. I was determined not to miss it again this year.

Dressed in an old pair of jeans, old shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt, I went to the town square at about 8:15 pm. In the evenings, the center of Tactic is usually bustling with people eating at the numerous food stands, hanging out in the park, and waiting for buses. But this night the center was eerily empty and quiet. Save for a couple of brave vendors and about a dozen loitering youths, everyone else had cleared out. It was the calm before the storm.

The calm was abruptly broken when screaming men throwing fireballs entered the center from all corners. Seemingly instantly a group of about 50 men and boys formed to “play” with the fireballs and the onlookers gathered a distance away near the police station to watch.

Perhaps against better judgment (the other volunteer who was with me ran to “safety” the moment the men stormed the center), I stayed right in the middle of the action to film it. I have never been in combat (and never will be), but the experience of being bombarded from all sides with fireballs is the closest approximation I will have of being in a war zone. It was sheer madness and mayhem. Balls of fire were flying in and from all directions—from the tops of buildings and every corner of the center.

The men construct the fireballs using trapo (rags) soaked in gasoline wrapped up with alambre (metal wire) to hold them to together. Some of the bolas had an extra piece of alambre so that they could be swung and thrown more easily. At any given time (the event lasted until after midnight, but I only stayed for about an hour and a half), there would be around five balls in play. When these burnt out, more men would come running in swinging others or they would light new ones off the burning remains of the old fireballs.

Despite the appearance of complete chaos, there was actually some order to the event (as much “order” as can be expected when playing with fireballs). When a ball had lost its form and was therefore “too dangerous,” it was taken out of play and put out. There would be shouts of, “¡Ya no, muchá! ¡Solamente queda trapo!” and someone would carry it to a pool of water.

I knew or at least recognized a majority of the men who were participating, and I imagine most of them recognized me. So even though I was right in the middle of the war zone and got hit numerous times in the legs, arms, and back with errant fireballs, I was not specifically a target. The one time I was hit in the back on purpose, for my protection a man yelled, “¡No muchá! ¡No le peguen la seño!” at the perpetrators. And anytime I kicked a fireball just to get it away from me, a boisterous cheer would rise from the crowd.

Others who did not have my gringa force field of protection were not so lucky. I saw a handful of guys catch on fire, some got hit in the face with flaming balls, and even those who were not actively participating would get pulled into the fray when someone would throw or kick a fireball in their direction. There was no truly safe place within viewing distance of the action.

I have never seen anything like the bolas de fuego before in my life. While I was filming, every once and a while a guy would ask me, “Do they do this in the United States?” My response was always, “No, there is nothing like this in the United States. This would be completely illegal there.”

“Sí, pues. ¿Somos locos, verdad?”

“Claro.”

veintisiete

I turned twenty-seven today. I don’t have anything witty or moving or funny to write. I just feel old.

Justification

My Peace Corps friend, Kelly, told me I should not have named Houdini. She was right. You should not name your food. It makes it even harder to kill it. I seriously thought about passing off the duties to someone, but in a weird way I felt obligated to do it myself, like I owed it to Houdini. I raised him, and I should be responsible for killing him.

So I did it. I felt bad about it, and I still do. But I did it.

I am a meat eater. I love meat, and I eat a lot of it. Before coming to Guatemala I had never seen an animal slaughtered for food. I bought my meat in plastic wrapped packages, and I liked it that way. I still do. A plastic bag with thin slices of turkey breast is a far cry from the animal it once was, and it makes you forget that what you are eating was previously a living creature (which is why I have always liked it). But I have seen many chickens and turkeys killed here for food. It is a process that is foreign and disturbing yet interesting. It is a process that most Americans have probably not seen and especially not experienced.

I posted the video of me killing Houdini on YouTube and received this angry comment from a viewer:

I don't understand how people can raise an animal then kill it, especially like that? That was freaking brutal. And why would you want to advertise your lack of compassion for the whole world to see? That's nothing to brag about.

The comment really bothered me, so I replied to the viewer with the following:

In the developing world people raise and kill animals all the time. There is probably not a single person in rural Guatemala who has not killed a duck, turkey, or chicken, or at least seen it happen. People do it not because they like killing or because it is fun, but because it is their source of food. And I chose to do it, because I wanted to have a better appreciation of my food source by raising and killing it myself.

And I suppose by your censure saying the video I uploaded was “freaking brutal,” that you have never seen a turkey killed before. When you kill a turkey or chicken whether it be by twisting their necks, slitting their throats, or cutting out their tongues (all forms I have seen used here in Guatemala), the animal convulses. This may appear “freaking brutal,” but it is an unavoidable reaction of the dying body.

So I am not glorifying killing, and you have no right to question my compassion. I love animals, and I could never kill one for sport or fun. Killing a turkey to eat it is NOT animal abuse. That turkey, my turkey, lived a very good life, well fed and free from cages. And despite what you might have gathered from the video, it was very difficult for me to kill my turkey pet. I did it, not because I am compassionless and brutal as you have suggested, but because as a meat eater I wanted to be an active participant in my food chain. And I put it on the internet, not because I am bragging, but because many people, like yourself, have no idea what the process is like.

When poor rural Guatemalans want to eat meat, they don’t go to the supermarket. They go to their backyard and pick out the biggest chicken. But as Americans we are so far removed from the realities of our food chain that simply witnessing the process of how that Butterball got on our Thanksgiving plate leads us to condemn others. If you don’t want to see how a turkey is killed and prepared to be cooked, then don’t watch the video and look at the pictures. But if you want to get past the plastic wrapping and have a better understanding of from where that piece of meat you are eating came, then feel free to look.

I know after having killed my own meal, I have a better appreciation for the meat I eat.

Houdini's Death

Below is a short video of Houdini’s death. It is somewhat graphic, so if you do not enjoy seeing blood, I suggest you not watch it.

My mom wishes that I did not put this on the internet and fears PETA will prevent me from ever obtaining a job when I return to the states. But

a) I am a friend of the animals.

b) Houdini lived an excellent life free from cages, well fed, and loved.

c) His death was swift and hopefully as painless as possible.

d) The killing of Houdini was not for sport but to provide a meal for a group of people.

And

5) PETA does not have that kind of power.

Trypotophan

Thankful I'm not bleeding

My Thanksgiving had a near disastrous start. I woke in the morning to discover Houdini had escaped yet again. I checked the yard behind my house, but he wasn’t there. I moved on to where he had previously been attacked by the other turkeys (using the convenient gate in the barbed wire fence), but there was no sign of him there either. There is a bakery on one side of my house where I had found Houdini the preceding afternoon, so I headed there next.

The customer entrance to the bakery faces the same street as my house does. But I was on the backside coming in through the delivery truck entrance. Perhaps as a little side business, the bakery owner has pens of turkeys and chickens in the back, and despite the beating he had already taken, I figured I would find Houdini there again fraternizing with his own kind.

The last time I tracked down Houdini at the bakery there were a lot of people outside, and they helped me locate him. But this time there was no one around, so I proceeded down the long dirt path leading up to the building alone. About half way, a very large hound dog started barking at me.

Guatemalan dogs bark. The streets are littered with them. They bark, and they growl, and they act tough until you raise an arm like you are going to throw a rock at them, and then they dart away whimpering. And I like dogs (granted the ones here have done a lot to erode that affection). So in the face of an angry looking, growling, and barking hound dog, I continued walking down the path in search of Houdini.

The dog was a good distance away, close to the building, and I assumed, from past experience, that as I drew nearer to him, he would simply start backing up and run away. But we all know what assuming does, and the irony is that is one of the places I was eventually bitten.

By the time I realized that this hound dog was not your everyday Guatemalan chucho, it was already too late. He started at a full sprint and pounced on me. I had just enough time to block my face with my arms. Satan (after the attack I christened this name for him) knocked me back with his force and bit my hand. But I did not go down. I turned, and I bolted.

I think just to make more of a game out of it, Satan purposely gave me a head start. I thought I was to safety when he suddenly surged from behind and bit me in the butt. He ripped my pants, and I kept running. I ran until I finally reached the street, and he stopped pursuing me. Apparently Satan is a guard dog, and a pretty damn good one at that. Once I was out of his territory, he left me in peace.

Now I am not usually a screamer, but this hound dog that was half my size put my vocal chords to work. A couple of the bakery employees heard my cries of distress and came outside. I was too scared to set foot back into Satan’s domain, so I yelled at them from the street to check and see if my turkey was there. He wasn’t. I got bit in the behind, and I lost Thanksgiving dinner.

Disheartened and disheveled, I headed home. My adrenaline rush was starting to wear off, and I thought to check my wounds. Satan chomped down but didn’t tear, and fortunately he didn’t break the skin. So as I made my way back to my house, I thought even though we won’t be having turkey for Thanksgiving, and even though a dog did just attack me, at least I was not bleeding. I was thankful not to be bleeding. I was thankful not to have to make an emergency trip to the capital to get rabies shots and miss our turkeyless Thanksgiving entirely.

But when I got home I found Houdini eating tortillas on the porch. After a rough start, Thanksgiving was looking up…

RIP Houdini

The preceding posts have been a pictorial representation of the life and death of Houdini, our Thanksgiving turkey. A post describing the day’s events is soon to follow.

I spent a large portion of weekend hosing Houdini’s poop off of my porch, cleaning out his water dish, and tossing the rest of his food. Without his constant gobbling, my house is quiet. I miss Houdini.

Reminders.

The Last Moments

Last poses with Houdini.

A good-bye hug.

Tying up the legs.

The final words.

The Killing

The final slice.
Fighting the convulsions.

Licda. Griffin in the jardin with the machete.

The head.

Blood splatters.

The Plucking

Draining the blood.

Boiling the bird.

Plucking the feathers.

Checking the weight (11 lbs).