We don’t get a lot of visitors way out here, so when we do, it’s big news. Or, in this case, Big Emily (miman Emily). That’s what the people in our town have taken to calling her; in training we called her Emily Alta, to keep her straight from the other three Emilys in the training class. And, yes, she’s tall- a squeak taller than I am, which is TOWERING over every other man, woman, and child in our village.

The first task was to get ready for a guest. We did the normal stuff (crazy cleaning an hour before she got here), but also converted our attic into a loft guestroom. We’re pretty excited about it, and should have thought of it a long time ago. Now we have two separate spaces in our home, and a place to hide from locals when we want privacy. Emily Alta even tells me that it’s comfy to sleep there at night. The neighborhood kids think the idea of a loft is novel and exciting, as you can see here.

As is tradition, we told her that if she could go to the trouble to get here, we’d feed her. I’ve always thought that to be a fair trade, even in pre-Peace Corps life. We enjoyed banana-Nutella crepes, spicy beef curry, fresh cinnaimon rolls, homemade pizza, pasties (meat-potato pies), and other yummies. She brought the wine. 🙂

Our neighbors were excited to meet her, and invited us over for a lunch of barbecued pork. Not like in the US, but more like they do here: chunks of pig meat roasted on a steel stake over an open fire. Have to say, came out pretty yummy. And Emily got to see how fresh meat can really be- about two hours from oink to food.

Since our valley is so pretty, I thought we’d do a hike. Emily was game, but I kindof got her into more than she’d bargained for. The first half went great, but about halfway through, I kindof got lost. OK, not LOST lost, because we could see our village across the valley the whole time, but definately not on the beaten path. The path got increasinlgy hard to find, to the point that I had to get out my machete to make it passable. Then, as if on cue, storm clouds gathered to give us a nice shower. This turned the flimsy path into mud, and we rode our butts down the muddy hillside a few times. My Emily even turned her ankle, making an uncomfortable trip sketchier. When we exited the jungle an hour later, we were wet and muddy and a great amusement to the locals.

About all that was left to make the weekend complete was a trip to the Mother’s Day Fiesta! This is cause for much excitement amongst the neighbor ladies, because they get to play dress-up doll with Emily. But with TWO Emilys? DOUBLE FUN!!!!! Here we have the Emilys together posing in the local traje, ready for a funfilled night of dancing slowly in a circle, bobbing up and down, listening to the same marimba song over and over while trying to deflect staggering drunks in the middle of the village community center. A good time was had by all.  

It’s Tom Vs. Rooster in a one-one-one deathmatch! Not really, they didn’t die. But it was a nasty fight and went on for a while. Neighbor’s rooster, not mine. I actually know that rooster, it’s pretty cocky most of the time (hah! pun intended). But I don’t know what it was thinking, fighting the big-daddy turkey of the neighborhood that is three times its size. They duked it out for several minutes, and by the second half, the rooster was getting its butt kicked pretty bad. They broke it up on their own eventually, with the turkey strutting off, all torn tailfeathers and head held high. The ckicken slinked away to the cornfield, and once he was out of sight of the turkey, let out a big cock-a-doodle-doo in case any of the lady chickens didn’t see what just happened.

Sometimes, if we’ve been in site a while and are “just living”, little things crop up that don’t merit their own post. Mostly becuase of laziness on my part. Therefore, they get clumped together. Let’s go!

Gotta start out with a screensaver for everyone. You can click on the sunset to get the full-sized version. We’re trying to enjoy as many sunsets as possible here before the rainy season starts. Sometimes the rainy season brings storms, and sometimes that leads to power outages. But usually, blackouts are just a result of living in the boonies in Central America. So we always have a lot of candles on hand, and cook with gas. Sometimes we are without power all day.

Our little buddy Chalio still likes to make toys. Sometimes he makes them for other kids, too. I think he’s one of the smartest kids in town, which makes me happy that he is so amused to hang out with us. We let him come inside to color a lot. Here he is with a helicopter he made from corn cobs and straw, and a tiny guitar he made from scrap wood and nails and string. It even makes noise when he strums it. He still tells me that my idea for an 8-foot-diameter kite won’t work, and my quest is to prove him wrong.

We ran out of firewood a few days ago, so I’ve been burning scraps of stuff lying aorund the house. We buy through the neighbors when they buy theirs, because they have all the connections and know how to not get cheated. But for some complicated reasons I don’t understand, firewood has not been forthcoming for anyone. The other day, all the women next door went to the mountains to cut & collect. They invited me along, so I grabbed my machete and joined the scavenger crew. It took hours, looking for standing deadwood and breaking it down with machetes (which everyone brought). Then, we tied the wood into bundles with rope (which everyone except me brought, since I didn’t know about it) and carried it a few miles home. This was a blessing, as I didn’t have to carry any wood. I tried it a few days ago, and it’s HARD! They carry about 80 pounds at a time, on a mecapal (strap) that goes across your head. Ugh. Here’s a picture of Lina tying her bundle (my backpack and machete in the foreground) and another of all the women on the hike home.

The last thing was my birthday. Our buddy Pedro decide that we should have an American-style barbecue at his new roadside store, and it was a blast. We also used it as an excuse to teach him how to make a REAL hamburger. He is thinking about selling them at his store, as there are a lot of returned immigrants here that remember how good those are, but no one here cooks ’em up right. We fixed that! The burgers were really tasty. But I learned something from Pedro, too: ranch dressing on burgers is AWESOME.

Then, when we came home, our friendly neighbors invited us over and Emily cooked up the ever-popular “chocolate cake” for the birthday. They got me a present! Now I have a mug for my tea. Yay.

As you might remember, we got some chickens. Emily and I have been excited about the idea of chickens since we were both little, and it’s a funny sortof “dream come true” for us to have some. But there have been some hitches along the way: it took us about 2 months for the chickens to finally get here after we bought them, some of our neighbors thought we stole one of theirs, things like that. But in general, we’re happy, and we’re getting the hang of being chicken owners. However…

Turns out, we don’t have chickens. I was watching them leave the coop yesterday morning, and Lina (the younger) was stanging there. “Those chickens have been acting kindof aggressive lately,” I began, trying to make up some sort of conversation. “I am starting to wonder if they might be roosters.”

She made a small smile and nodded her head. “Yep. You won’t be getting any eggs from those two.”

I paused. I was only half joking. “Are serious?” I asked. “How do you know? They still aren’t full grown.”

She shrugged. “It’s easy. The have this mini-comb on top of their heads.”

I guess that explains the cryptic comment that Maria made the evening she brought them by. “No estoy seguro,” she said, “pero tal vez son varones.” (I’m not sure, but maybe they’re boys) Um, yeah. According to Lina, you can tell they’re males WAY before they get as big as they were when Maria brought them by.

So, now Emily and I have to decide if we should be angry or not. We have to make this decision a lot here in Guatemala. Looking back, we are 99% sure we told Maria we were buying the chickens so we can have eggs. Did she cheat us on purpose, getting rid of the mostly-useless roosters by pawning them off on the gringoes? Or did she actually not know, despite her years of experience raising chickens? Solo dios sabe. Like usual, we give people the benefit of the doubt, to make life here smoother. That, and we stop doing business with the individual in question. Not a big problem, there is another lady up the mountain that was also interested in selling us some chickens. I guess we’ll go see her in a month or two, so we can buy our next batch of REAL chickens.

Because, you see, we are having rooster stew in another month or two. When asked, Lina offered to let us know when they are the ideal size for cookin’, and we’re going to gift them to our nice neighbors that always invite us over for dinner. I even told Lina she can have the head.

Sometimes we stumble across some pretty inappropriate (yet hilarious) stuff by accident. Two of the neighbor kids, Chalio and Alberto, come in to see us regularly. They’re helpful and kind, so we sometimes let them draw on our marker board as a thank-you. Usually, their drawings reflect themes of whatever has happened in town recently. Last week was Semana Santa (holy week) to celebrate the crucifixion of Christ. Being an extremely Catholic country, they really get into that stuff here. Anyways, here is what Chalio drew. I was able to identify the first three items (left to right): A steaming mug of atol (a local drink that is a lot like an unsweetened corn smoothie, yuck) followed by Jesus on the cross followed by a watermelon. I was baffled by the fourth item. “Is it you?” I asked, not quite sure what the pointed stick was all about.

“It’s a Jew!” he gleefully explained.

HAHAHA! Of course. In all their celebrations and reenactments, they make a point of remembering that the Jews killed Jesus. I don’t think it’s intentional antisemitism, but I don’t really know what to make of it. Drawings are a window into a kid’s mentality, and I am sure Jews are fresh on his mind, because I hear that one of the big events we missed while in Antigua for Easter was the local “Running of the Jews”, just like they had in Borat. One of our neighbors seemed pretty excited about it, and was disappointed when we told him we had to be out of town that day. “You won’t get to see it anywhere else,” he cajoled. I found out later that they indeed DO run the jews in other towns, but our region (Huehuetenango) is kindof famous for having the most elaborate runs. Our buddy Joe who lives in the south heard this from his neighbor, who went on the complain that “everyone wants to be a Jew nowadays” during the reenactment, and “that takes all the fun out of it.”

My friend Mark sent me this link that has a good, well-thought-out discussion of Judiasm and the death of Christ: http://www.faqs.org/faqs/judaism/FAQ/09-Antisemitism/section-10.html

Hi guys! We have a lot to say here, so we’re going to do it together. This is me, Emily, in brown. Jaime/Fletch/Jim is in black. So here’s our story.

You might not remember Easter, as it was a few weeks back. For most of you, it was little more than looking around the house for brightly colored eggs and biting the ears off of chocolate bunnies. If you are particularly devout, you might have spent some time in church listening to sermons. But for Emily and I, Easter was a weeklong experience, Guate-style.

As previously mentioned, Guatemala is a predominantly Catholic country like much of Latin America. It’s been that way for just under 500 years, so they’ve worked up some pretty interesting and extreme ways to celebrate. Last week was semana santa, or “holy week”, where they celebrate the events surrounding the crucifixion of Jesus. For us, it was a chance to see the most elaborate and colorful celebration in central America, right here in Antigua Guatemala.

Having a working knowledge of the bible is very helpful to understanding the events of semana santa, but in case you’re not up to speed, I will try to fill you in as we go (and how ironic that he’s catching you up when I was the one who spent so much time in Catholic schools, hehe). Our first adventures of the fiesta had nothing to do with ancient history, however: we had to find a room. Hotels triple their prices during this holiday season, and we already live like paupers. Luckily, our friend Vera at the Dia Verde hotel was there to save us. Her hotel went form 50q/person a night to 185q/person a night, but when we called to reserve a room she said she would give us her smallest double for 185q total, if we didn’t tell any of the other guests. Needless to say, we brought her some cookies a few times during the week. It’s nice to have friends in random places!

Our second problem was with the buses. We were planning on leaving home Thursday morning, to save some money. But then we heard that on Thursday and Friday, many buses don’t run and we probably wouldn’t be able to get to Antigua. We changed our plan at the last minute Wednesday morning, hopping a Quiche bus when we got to Huehuetenango so we might get lucky and make the right connections and arrive in Antigua before the shutdown. I called Vera from the road, on the slim chance that she still had a room for Wednesday night as well. “Tienes suerte, Jaimito,” she said. “Todavia hay uno mas.” We were in luck, a room! We made every connection with only seconds to spare, and we arrived safely in Antigua an hour or two before sundown.

That evening we experienced our first procession. The crowd of onlookers first got our attention, then the Roman soldiers harrying along a few condemned prisoners that would be sharing crucifixion space with Jesus. We knew the big guy himself must be close behind. Before we could see it, we could hear it: orchestra music coming down the street, playing a somber tune heavy on the tuba and timpani. This was followed closely by the smell of frankincense, a cloud of which filled the street ahead. Soon a huge crowd of penitants dressed in purple robes emerged from the smokescreen, marching solemnly to the ominous music. Then the anda appeared: a beautifully carved, giant wooden float of sorts. It was borne upon the shoulders of a crowd of people, much as pallbearers carry a coffin. The anda made its way slowly but deliberately down the narrow cobblestone street, and atop it rode the figure of Jesus, bloodstained and tortured, bearing the cross.  

The first anda we saw had spaces for 80 bearers. Vera’s boyfriend explained to us that it’s a priviledge to be allowed to carry, and the bearers are assigned two numbers with their participation card: a number corresponding to a padded shoulder rest on the anda, and a second corresponding to which section of the route they would be carrying. This seems awfully organized for Guatemala, but I guess it has to be: when the anda gets heavy and they switch, they do it rather smoothly, and I never heard of one getting dropped.

We were told a lot of different stories as to how one acquires a spot as a bearer: it’s handed down along family lines, it has to be bought with donations, it has to be earned by a lot of participation in church brotherhoods and communitiy activities. Likely, it’s a combination of the three. Vera was also carrying andas during the long weekend. She said, “My grandmother always did it, so now I do too. She told me the more it hurts, the more sins you’re atoning for on the walk.” What an old-school mentality. But sure enough, Friday and Saturday night Vera was dressed in what looked like funeral clothes, going out to carry the anda of Mary. Besides carrying, there are other interesting jobs relating to the procession:

There are a few guys in front with really tall decorated poles. The poles are the height of the float, and much like a pilot car in front of an oversized semi in the U.S., the poles are used to check if the float will fit under the power lines. If not, the decorative top of the poles is designed to act as a fork to grab low-hanging power lines and push them up and out of the way!	A different guy has a pole with numbers atop it, to let the waiting bearers know when their turn is about to come up.	And, of course, there are the various aforementioned jobs, like the censer swingers. They make the huge acrid cloud of frankincense that Joe’s mom refers to as “church fever”.
If you want to carry the anda, you should start your training at an early age.	Here is a “ye olde tunic shop”, for all your purple robe needs. It’s called Tunics and More. But what more could you need?	And everyone needs a carry permit… and I don’t mean the kind of “carry permit” you can get in the States.

We slept in Thursday morning, anticipating a long night ahead. Many of the locals had warned us that the celebration doesn’t really stop from about Thursday morning until Sunday morning. Vera’s story confirmed one I’d heard from Guillermo, my host uncle from training. She said, “We Antiguenos are just used to not sleeping from Thursday until Sunday during Semana Santa.” Guillermo’s family of 6 stays in their grandfather’s tailor shop just off the main street, sleeping a bit if they get tired, but spending most of the time wandering the streets and enjoying the festivities. That sounds a lot more fun than this guy’s idea, camping in the central square of town. We made plans to meet up with them late on Thursday. This cracked me up, we found people pitching tents in public parks to be quite literally in the center of all the action. Maybe we should have done this instead of spending all that money on a room? Though for how infrequently we get to use real showers, the money is almost always worth it.

Antigua is a great city in which to get up and do yoga. Almost all hotels have rooftop terraces where I like to practice. Additionally the mornings are quiet and clear and the volcanos surrounding the city jut up in the distance, a lush green in color. This was the first the time I’ve been to Antigua and woken up to find a haze dulling the view of the volcanos. It was strange. Then I thought, it must be a cloud of procession smoke that just doesn’t go away until Sunday. Sure enough, every morning was hazy until Monday morning rolled around.

After a day of watching processions march around the city, we were getting hungry. Scores of food vendors had overrun the churchyard in front of La Merced (one of the fancier churches in town), and tasty smells were eminating from the stalls. Emily broke down and took a chance with street food after watching one lady in particular to see that she was not up to any particularly unsanitary practices. The churrascos we ended up eating were delicious, and we have yet to suffer any ill effects. Thing is, all through training we were warned to stay away from street food, and even though it smelled delicious, I did. What’s funny is that while visiting Morocco, a country with a similar level of development and sanitation as Guatemala, we survived off street food, and it never hurt me. Jaime had some issues, but I was good to go. I’d toyed with the idea of street food here for a long time, but since the amoebas incident I’ve been too scared to eat it. This week it seemed like I wasn’t accepting the culture we were celebrating in if I didn’t partake in their food, so I plucked up the courage and dove in. Indeed, it was delish. As my friend Tim (another volunteer) said when I gasped after seeing him stick his toothbrush under the faucet in a hotel, “Hey, I did everything right during training, and I was sick the whole time (and he did look strikingly like a skeleton for 3 months). I don’t concentrate on doing everything right anymore, and I haven’t had any problems.” I still don’t put my toothbrush under the faucet, though.

Once night fell, we moved to the cathedral where they were having the trial of Jesus. Actors dressed as Pontius Pilate, Jewish clergymen, and Roman soldiers enacted a pretty elaborate dramatization. There were TV news crews and everything. Though in what seems more and more to be “typical” fashion for big public shows, there was a lot of microphone malfunctioning which made it difficult to hear. Good thing I know the story well, or might not have known what was happening!

As the evening wore on, more and more people could be seen gathering in the streets. They were out to watch all the craftsmen and devoted worshippers making alfombras, or carpets, for Jesus to walk over during his procession to the crucifixion at sunrise. Most of the alfombras are made from colored sawdust, in extremely elaborate patterns. Dozens of workers toil on each one all night long, using stencils, brushes, and improvised tools to create elaborate works of art. Some alfombras are sponsored by businesses, some are built as a family activity, and a few are the work of individuals. When the procession passes over them hours later, they are completely destroyed. There is something profoundly moving about all that work and beauty going into such a temporal thing. They do it for god, as a sacrifice.

It was at about this time that we got a call from Memo, the 12-year-old from my host family during training. They were all in town, so we decide to meet at 10pm. Of course, you can never expect a 12-year-old to be timely, and if he’s Guatemalan… yeah, we found him and his whole family at about midnight in front of La Merced. We got there just in time for the Sentencing, where the Romans come out and tell everyone that Jesus is to be crucified. Here we see some Romans on horseback bringing the bad (good?) news. The horsemen leave from the church and ride around the city telling everyone of the crucifixion taking place in the morning. Pretty cool. Emily and I bought giant chocolate cookes and gave them out to all 4 kids, as well as Guillermo and Lucy. I told the kids the sugar was to keep them awake all night. I’d had a large cup of coffee at 9pm to keep going. Though if their hero Jaime is around, they don’t usually need anything else to keep them going. We have to act like we’re they’re cool aunt and uncle, so we don’t forget how to do that once we get home. A good time was had by all. Except Jesus, that is. He was having a bad day, and it would only get worse.

By this point, it was about 1:30 am on Friday, and we were pooped. We went back to the hotel for a couple hours of sleep, and were back up in time for the procession that started at 4am. We got up a little bit early to catch the Romans that move around town tooting horns and letting everyone know that Jesus was going to get crucified. Then, promptly at 4am, Jesus and his anda left the church for his procession towards cucifixion. It was a giant re-enactment of The Way of the Cross.

We followed him a few blocks, then headed off towards the calle ancha, the big street at the end of the town, to see the Big League alfombras he would be walking over in an hour. You see, the most elaborate carpets are built on the calle hancha because it is really wide (it’s the route the buses take through town) and it’s smooth (asphalt, unlike the cobblestones that cover the rest of Antigua’s streets). I uploaded a tiny video of these artists working; it’s on YouTube right here. We spent the next few hours gawking at the amazing art, and almost missed the fact that the sun came up somewhere around 6am. This is great, because we were able to get some pictures of the full beauty of the carpets with natural sunlight.  

It was really cool to me how the entire city just forgets about sleeping for this weekend. The streets are packed no matter the hour and there’s a carnival spirit in the air; even during the days everyone wanders the streets in black because they’re supposed to be sad it feels more exciting than sad. I was riding on all the energy around me, and the desire to see more carpets. So many of them were breathtaking, ten and twelve hours of solid work after who knows how many hours of planning the design and gathering materials, and in a ten minute stretch, for some of the longest carpets, they’re all gone. We walked more of Antigua in that morning than any other time we’ve been there.

Now you gotta understand, these beautiful carpets get completely DESTROYED witin hours of being completed. Here we have a “before” and “after” of the whole process, as the procession moves around town walking over alfombras. Then, a few minutes later, the dedicated folks of the Antigua street cleaning crew come by. I am sure they dread Holy Week. Or maybe it’s the street cleaners’ time to shine. 🙂

By about 8am, we were shot. And hungry. So we stopped by one of my favorite breakfast places, the Bagel Barn (yeah, yeah, a touristy place. But it’s cheap, it gives a volunteer discount, and it’s yummy). We ordered a quick bite to eat, and I promptly fell asleep sitting up before the food arrived. I know this because mean old Emily took a picture. This was the signal that we should go home and rest some more. I did not order coffee with this breakfast since the goal was to make it back to our hotel and crash. As he feel asleep waiting for the food, I had my feet propped up on the chair across from me resting my weary bones. Since Antigua has all cobbled streets, and we’d been walking on them for the better part of 24 hours, our hips and legs were absolutely aching. The last thing I remember before dropping off to sleep at the hotel was the throbbing sensation in my feet.

We got up in the early afternoon and headed to the main square to see if anything was going on. By luck, we managed to get there right when they were taking Jesus down from the cross. I don’t know why, but the crowd up front wasn’t too tight and we got a really good view of the Lamb of God up close. They loaded him up on some pallbearers and took him into the cathedral, causing a rush of people that we narrowly avoided as they tried to get into the church to see him one last time before they “sealed the tomb”. Notice in the background of this photo there is a volcano just barely visible throught he haze; that is the processional smoke I was talking about. It just sat over the entire city all weekend long.

Once Jesus got killed, things changed up a bit. Whereas the earlier processions were robed entirely in purple, now they all wore robes of black. But this didn’t at all dampen their enthusiasm for carrying giant floats around town!

After our little nap to keep us going from a whole night of missed sleep, Jaime’s spirit, and his legs, were less than enthusiastic about watching all the floats go by. I kept dragging him from one place to another. There was so much to see, we ran ourselves ragged. We thought we’d go back to the hotel, shower, and get ready to go out for the evening, but as we got ready to leave we noticed the door was blocked by an assembled crowd, and decided to wait rather than try and push our way through. I was sitting in the kitchen window watching the beginnings of another processions unfolding, at first below me, and then at eye level. I shouted at Jaime to come look! Like we’d never seen this before…but somehow it was still pretty interesting. Once the procession finished, we decided “going out” was really too ambitious, so we went to the park a block away for a quick dinner, and then went to bed.

Friday evening I was sitting in our room and chatting with my mom online. Then I heard it, faint at first, then growing: timpani and tuba, a somber funeral dirge. Emily was yelling at me from the kitchen to com see, so I joined her in the window. Soon thereafter, a cloud of incense rolled in like morning fog. I looked out the window to see Dead Jesus float right by the window, carried on the shoulders of a hundred men (I counted). It took about five minutes for the anda to get past the hotel, because it had to go backwards and forwards Austin-Powers style to get around the corner of the street.

Once it was past, then followed the orchestra, then the backup carriers, then… two guys pushing the generator cart providing all the power for the nighttime lighting effects.

After Jesus was dead, Saturday’s processions were mostly Mary. Mary is interesting because she follows Jesus when he’s carrying the cross, but once he’s dead, she just wanders the streets in sadness by herself. This is the chance for the women to participate in the andas as well. Mary’s float is smaller, but does all the same stuff as the Big Guy. This does indeed mean the andas are sex segregated. Only men carry the largest andas depicting christ, and only women carry the smaller floats of Mary. But the sad, wandering Mary was really touching to me. She just looks lost without the rest of the great big procession.

The rest of the weekend was a blur of procession after procession, many of them similar to the first one. Here follows a selection of some of the more beautiful or interesting alfombras we saw.

This is a huge carpet. I have no idea how many people had to work on it to get it done in one night.	Some have cool pictures worked into them, not just patterns.	The patterns on this one are of a Mayan motif. The Old Gods love Jesus, too, you know.
The carpets are a modern metaphor for sacrifice. Some are made purely of vegetables, a gift of food for God. The bearers don’t generally like that kind because it can be tricky to walk over.	Eggs are food too, right? Maybe we should make an offering of THOSE! Yeah! We’ll stick them right here on the carpet.	Some people have different ideas of what they should sacrifice. Here we have live turtles. Emily wondered aloud if the turtles get killed in the process, and a bystander told us that they remove them right before the procession passes. Whew!
These guys made a map of Antigua in miniature, showing the route of the processions. I wonder if they have a miniature map of their miniature map on the route?	If you are going to sacrifice to God, to make it “count” it should be stuff that’s important to you. Um, like potato chips and candy.	And who can forget the flowers? This basket is big enough it could trip up the bearers, so they probably removed it before. I hope. Interestingly the “basket” is a giant pod that holds the long white fibers you see at the edge of the carpet.

Oddly, Sunday was pretty quiet. I think they did a procession early in the morning when Jesus rose from the dead, but it wasn’t any grand thing. I expected something like a cacophony of church bells ringing throughout the city, and joyous choirs. But if there was that it wasn’t joyous enough to wake me from my slumber, which makes me think it didn’t happen. Our hotel was right in the middle of things. But anyway… This was our very happy vacation. That’s why I look very happy in this photo (also my hot chocolate in the mug was tasty). After Jaime did his whirlwind trip to the US and back, he was pretty underwhelmed by the idea of leaving our home again any time soon. I BEGGED him to do this trip with me. He didn’t want to travel. Then I BEGGED him some more. The thing that he should have figured out by now is, when it comes to fun, I have some pretty great ideas. And once he stops grumping about me making him do stuff, he’s super fun to do things with, too. 🙂 Semana Santa in Antigua was a pretty outrageous fun time.

So, that’s about it. This has to be the longest post we’ve ever made, so I hope it was worthwhile and not too boring. Emily’s posing with the smallest alfombra we came across, apparently made by an individual or tiny family. I like it, because it reminds me of the do-it-yourself nature of Guatemalans, as well as their hands-on participatory approach to their relationship with God. In all, it sortof sums up what Semana Santa is about in Guatemala.

Our woodburning stove has saved us once again. Today is apparently the start of the rainy season, and after months of dust and burning sun, we have RAIN. Steady, drizzly, wind-driven, cold rain. Pacific Northwest style rain, that will likely last for several months. We were out jogging, minding our own business, when it started. By the time we got home, we were soaked. Last rainy season, that was a recipe for hours of misery, but not with our trusty stove! We hang the wet clothes on the clothesline above, and plop down next to its toasty goodness for a good rest.

But wait, that’s not all! Right when I started dinner, the propane cylinder for our oven ran out as well. Normally, we keep a second cylinder on hand ready to go, but we got a leaky one last time and had to switch cylinders early, losing track of which was the near-empty one. I thought this would ruin dinner for sure, then I remembered Stove. I often forget it can do more than heat the house and dry clothes. So, I boiled our drinking water, made some tea, and boiled & baked some bagels. How’s that for a good investment?

So, thanks again to everyone that helped us get this lifesaving device. You know who you are.

Back in the late 70s and early 80s, Guatemala had a big nasty civil war. They signed peace accords in 1996, but not until after a bunch of people had been killed and nearly a hundred villages wiped out, genocide-style. During this time, the government forced indigenous villages like ours to have patrullas, or night partols, that wandered the countryside during the darkness hours, looking for leftist geurillas. This was a problem because the men that were forced to serve on these patrols didn’t get paid by the government, and were too tired to work their fields during the day, so there was a lot of starvation combined with kids not going to school because THEY had to work the fields.

Now, flash forward to 2009. Things have been quiet in our region for years, since people were so tired of all the bloodshed, but in the last few months they’ve seen an increase in crimes like kidnappings and assasinations. This alarmed the council of elders in Santa Eulalia, and they drafted an act to re-start the patrulla system. The idea is that if there are men patrolling the main thoroughfares at night, then crime will go back down. It might work; in practice it is a lot like our Neighborhood Watch in the USA. And this time it’s different from the 80s, as the men aren’t forced to do it at the army’s gunpoint.

When they organized all this back in February, I was at the town meeting where they were grouping the men into patrols. Each patrol is 10 men, and with as many men as we have in the village, that means that each person only has to patrol about once a month or so. All able-bodied males from 12 to 60 are obligated to participate. At first I was a little nervous about a gang of teenagers running around with sticks and machetes in the dark, but one of the leaders explained to me that there will always be one or two responsible, middle-aged men in each group to avoid trouble. They also feel it’s a good way to teach civic responsibility to the next generation.

The patrollers were also told the contents of the Act signed by the elders. It lays out the rules for the patrol. Here are a few of my favorites (translated, for your convenience):

8. The patrollers may carry clubs, hoses, and ropes. I have no idea what the hose is for.

10. Patrollers under the unfluence of alcohol are not permitted. Thank god.

24. Single mothers and old ladies must be treated with extra consideration. One would hope, anyways.

23 & 25: A man can opt out of participating by paying between 35q and 50q, but he cannot be replaced by a minor or someone over 60. This is mostly in there for the men that are working in the US, who still technically have a civic responsibility to their community. They will be getting a bill for their patrol service. They probably won’t complain, though, as it works out to about $5 per night.

28. In dance clubs, types of music played will be regulated to not provoke changes in the mentality of the youths or to alter our culture. Um, wow. I think Orwell wrote that one. And what does that have to do with patrolling?

29. If you catch someone in a delinquent act, you must have a community investigation BEFORE you punish them. Just wanted to get that straight, folks.

So now we get to the point of this post. Every now and then, Manuel comes by and pounds on our door after dark, asking if I want to go patrol with him. I know it’s mostly a joke, sortof like when they ask me if I want to go drinking with them, but sometimes I like to call their bluff. Normally I laugh and decline, but last night I decided to participate in this strange aspect of Guatemalan life.

“Wait,” you must be thinking, “Aren’t you in the Peace Corps? What are you doing with a gang of club-toting latinos looking for kidnappers?” I wondered about that too, especially since I know that the security chief of Peace Corps Guatemala reads my blog (Hi Makali! I miss you!). But the truth of it is, we live so far out in the mountains that NOTHING happens here. Now, I know that walking around in the dark in Guatemala is a bad idea as well, but in this case, I was surrounded by a gang of armed men who are committed to my personal safety. So, I figured it would be a good idea to do just once, to see this part of village life, and to let the people know that I want to do my part to contribute to the well-being of their community.

So I strapped on my machete, donned my ropil (a heavy woolen tunic the local old-timers wear), and joined the guys for an evening of patrolling. I wish I could tell you something exciting happend, but I’d be lying if I did. We hung out in front of the health center for a while as they took roll, then we split into two groups of five. One followed the road uphill, and we followed the road that leads out to Santa Eulalia.

About every other hour, we moved to a different spot and sat in the ditch at the side of the road. Eventually we reached the bridge that marks the frontier of our aldea, and sat there. I pulled my ropil tight about me, to fight off the damp nighttime chill. I now know how my buddy HT must have felt on his job as night security when we were in college: lots of sitting around waiting for nothing to happen, chatting with the other patrollers. Most of their talk was in Q’anjob’al, so I rarely participated unless something I understood caught my attention. We talked a little about how much someone gets paid as a painter in the US, and about someone’s brother who bought a Honda Civic. Mostly, we sat in silence.

When time finally ran out, we saw a blinking light up the road. The other half of the patrol was signalling with their flashilight. One of our guys flashed his light back, and we got up to leave. “Roble!” Manuel said under his breath. His teenage son was nowhere to be seen. “Roble!” he said a little louder, then one of the others started laughing and pointing. Roble was entirely asleep on a grassy hill next to the birdge. They all started laughing, and he woke up. Shaking off sleep, he rose and joined us for the walk back to the village.

I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. It’s been a long time since I spent time alone, awake, and in the dark wilderness. The air is fresh, the land is sleeping, and there aren’t the distractions of the daylight hours. I can feel a more direct connection with the earth, in a very feral way. I think the last time I felt like that was when we used to play War on campouts when I was a boy scout. I also appreciate the way the Mayas act in the woods at night. They hardly ever turn on their flashlights, they talk in low voices, and they move slowly.

I got home at about midnight, cold and tired. Emily was already asleep, but she had stoked the woodburning stove up so the house was very comfy when I got back. She also left a pot of water on top so I could wash up with something hot. I hopped into bed, and slept like a rock, dreaming of faintly glowing misty clouds rolling down a dark valley as the wind whistled in the pines.

As I’ve mentioned before, we see some pretty creepy food items here. This evening we were eating dinner with the neighbors, and Lina (Galindo’s sister) sat down next to me. I like it when she sits by me, because she’s nice and funny and one of our bestest friends here. She makes cookies with Emily sometimes. Anyways, I look down into her bowl, and what should I see in it but Admiral Ackbar’s head. In miniature. About the size of a potato.

“Good god, what is that?” I thought to myself. Then I remembered that we were eating chicken soup. Logic demanded that it be only one thing: the chicken head, sans beak, with the eyes boiled out.

“Um, is that the chicken head?” I asked as tactfully as possible. She nodded her own head up and down vigorously, a huge smile on her lips.

And let me guess: “It’s your favorite part, isn’t it?”

“Que si!” she responded emphatically. It gave me flashbacks to Lucy (her same-age aunt) asking for an extra helping of dragonflies in her soup the day I had to choke THAT down. Ugh.

WARNING: this post contains images that may be disturbing to some. If you are opposed to the killing of animals, you may want to skip this post. Likewise, if you are one of my friends that uses this blog as an educational took for your children, you may wish to review it alone first so you can better explain what’s going on.

Chalio came over to our house all afluster. “Come take a picture, we’re going to kill a sheep, says my papa” he blurted out, then ran off. We get asked to take pictures a lot, so this is no big suprise, especially since this sheep was to celebrate an important event: the three-day birthday of the new baby. I grabbed my camera and went on over.

“Mira!” said Galindo as he was holding the leadrope. “Es kanxek!” Yep, this one was one of those weird four-horned sheep. Nas Palas tied ropes onto its hind legs and hoisted it to the rafters. Then he handed me the big Buck knife I got them for Christmas, and told me it was my turn to kill the sheep. He gave me a few pointers on how to hit the jugular, and how to hold the throat out of the way so that I don’t cut that accidentally, lest all the stomach contents come flying out and make a big mess (they do cut it later). Right, so here’s the picture. I did an OK job, and he bled out quickly enough.

Emily was watching, holding baby Delmi in the traditional Guatemalan style. She noticed the gallery of enthralled kids on the hill behind me and caught them on film. That deserved a “high five”, which they timidly provided. Since Chalio knows us a lot better than the other kids, he was just goofing around the whole time, including making a little dance routine up with the sheep legs someone gave him.

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