San Lucas Toliman (2), Guatemala January 29 – February 9, 1979

Today is market day in San Lucas.  It’s a much smaller one than in Panajachel –mostly fruits, vegetables, household wares and fabrics.  I went there to get some fruit – in particular I was on a hunt for zapotes.  Zapotes are a little smaller than an avocado.  Their outer skin looks almost like a peanut shell – the same colour, and just as tough.  I cut through it with my ever-ready Swiss Army knife and split it in half.  The flesh inside is coffee-coloured and very, very rich.  Richer and sweeter than a mango.   I was lucky today – there were lots of ripe zapotes.  I bought a half-dozen.  My next most favourite fruits here are the little red bananas – they’re shorter and fatter than the ones we get back home, and much sweeter.  And the tiny mandarin oranges, again sweeter than most other varieties. I bought some bananas and mandarins.  There were lots of avocadoes, but I didn’t need to buy those – we can just pick them off the trees at Jorge’s.  Imagine!  I love being able to pick an avocado and eat it right away.  Add a squeeze of lime, a generous shake of salt... .   

The women are the market-mavens – the life and beating heart of the market: they do all the bargaining and selling.  They are accustomed to dealing with small amounts – customers who want two oranges, a couple of avocadoes, one little bunch of green onions.  So today when I asked a woman for two ‘manos’ (two ‘hands’, or ten) oranges, she called a couple of her friends over to help her calculate how much that would be.  They all agreed that two oranges would be ‘cinco’ (five) pesos.  But what would ten be?  Out came the fingers, all of the women softly counting to herself.  But there was no agreement on what the price should be.  They were stumped.  In the end the woman placed them in my sack, two at a time, counting and adding as she went.  “Cinco y cinco y cinco y cinco y cinco.... es vente cinco!” (twenty-five!) she declared, clearly pleased with herself for having figured it out, and, more importantly, for having made such a big sale.  Her friends were just as pleased, all standing around her, smiling and nodding.

 

Buying more expensive items, like huipiles or lengths of fabric, is more challenging.  This is where the real bargaining begins.  So for example, if one huipile is valued at $6, and one at $7, how much would it be for both of them?  How about $20?  And a big smile!  So we start over, making up numbers as we go until we hit upon one that seems to satisfy both vendor and purchaser, but may have no relation to the actual value of what’s being bought and sold.  And really, what does it matter?  The $6 or $10 or $20 means so much more to them than to us.  And for myself, I leave happy knowing that whatever money I give them will be put to good use, will enable them to buy a little more food, clothing, necessities for their families.

 

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Yesterday I took a day-trip to Santiago – about an hour by bus on a rugged dirt road – for its market.  It was a lively market, full of colours and textures.  Much bigger and more touristy than the one in San Lucas, but not as big or touristy as the one in Panajachel.  I was greeted by enthusiastic (some might say aggressive) vendors as soon as I got off the bus of them.  Most of them were hawking woven and embroidered fabrics.  The specialty item here is men’s short pants (‘pantelones’) made of striped purple and white, or blue and white, or purple and light blue, woven, somewhat coarse, cotton fabric.  The bottoms of the legs are embroidered with colourful birds and few flowers.  The embroidery threads they use are sometimes made from natural plants – fruits, vegetables and flowers – and minerals, but increasingly now the women are using German threads, made from chemical dyes, which come in brassy day-glow colours.  They seem to like these brighter, gaudier colours.  The quality of the embroidery varies widely, mostly due to the age of the crafter – I saw little girls of four or five with needles in hand, practicing on bits of fabric.  It is a critical skill for girls to learn: the embroidery and weaving done by women brings their families a much needed cash income.  Although I admire the work, I’m not in the market for pantelones, and no amount of wheedling or bargaining (on their side only) could induce me to buy.  But I did get somewhat caught up in the market mania, and bought a few little things – purses, small bags – that I could give as gifts, but more importantly that weren’t too big to carry.  I’d like to support local artisans more – so much of their work is truly beautiful – and most of them are desperately in need of cash income.

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Today, as every day, women and girls walk by me as I stand or sit, in the early morning sun-haze, doing simple yoga stretches.  Some of them are on their way down to the lake for water, which they now carry in plastic, rather than clay, pots, on their heads.  The little girls have smaller pots – they learn to balance them on their heads when they are just 3 or 4 years old.  The women prefer the plastic pots because they are so much lighter than clay – clearly an advantage, especially on the sometimes long uphill walk home.  Some of women and girls are on their way down to the lake to do their washing.  There’s a series of rocks, about three feet from the shore, where the water is just about knee-deep.  The rocks are topped with flat rectangular or diamond-shaped cement tablet ‘wash-boards’.  Many of the tablets have initials carved into them – the rocks belong to specific women or families.  Even the little girls have washing rocks, usually right near their mother’s.  The women hitch their skirts up, tucking the hems into the sashes at their waists, and wade in, carrying their baskets and plastic tubs of laundry on their heads.  The women chatter and laugh as they slap their laundry against the rocks.  They do their laundry together with camaraderie and gaiety despite the monotony and heaviness of the work.  Sometimes they use short fat cylindrical bars of blue, grey or black soap, likely home-made; but many women now use detergent that comes in little plastic bags.  There is some speculation that this detergent is partially responsible for the increased weed growth and water quality issues in the lake.  The price of ‘progress’…?

 

I watch the women and girls, their feet bare, skirts wrapped around their waists, colourful huipiles on top, bringing water and big bundles of still-wet laundry up the dirt track from the lake, or bundles of firewood down from the mountains.  I cannot imagine the weight they are carrying up and down these hills.  Day after day.  The strength and hardiness they develop, of necessity, from leading such a hard, physically demanding life.  And yet, despite the difficulty of life here, despite their obvious poverty, despite the fact that some are clearly under-nourished, some likely beset by parasites and worms, some no better off than broken-down work-horses, they appear happy – smiling, laughing, joking with one another as they work.  There is an obvious love and affection between and among family members, a cohesiveness of community, and a cultural pride that transcends all that.  It’s rare to hear an angry or raised voice here.    

 

I find it difficult to determine, with any sense of accuracy, the ages of the women and girls I see.  A child who looks to me like she’s six tells me she’s ten; one who looks to me more like ten says she’s fifteen.  But the opposite seems true of the women, especially the ‘older’ women look much older than their age.  A woman of 30 often looks more like 50.  This is undoubtedly at least partly due to the number of children they’ve had – they often start having when they are just teenagers, and keep having them every couple of years.  It’s not clear what kind of birth control they may practice – possibly, if they follow the Roman Catholic faith, which many of them do, they do not practice birth control at all.  They may also look older simply due to poor diets – a lack of protein, vitamins, minerals – and a life of hard physical labour, both starting at a very young age.  For their part, they are surprised when I tell them my age.  How can a woman of almost 30 years be unmarried and childless?  How can I possibly explain?

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A few days ago I met a woman and her little girl, walking on the dusty road near San Lucas.  She was wearing the finest recently made huipile I’ve seen yet (the older ones tend to be more finely done, and always with plant, flower and vegetable dyed threads).  I admired her work, and she began to shine, and told me she worked for a gringa teaching weaving five days a week.  Also that she had five kids and no husband.  She wanted to know if I had a husband.  I said no, I didn’t. “That’s good,” she said, because “it’s really better without one.”  She said she and her husband had parted ways because he started drinking too much.  She used hand gestures to demonstrate, most effectively, her husband’s drinking, holding the bottle high in the air, and tipping her head back as she poured the alcohol down, gulping noisily.  Then feigning drunkenness by staggering around.  She was laughing heartily throughout her pantomime, and although both her little girl and I joined her in her laughter there was for me at least, a feeling of sadness – and responsibility, even guilt – there. Apparently alcoholism among men is increasing here, as are problems with relationships and families.  There are more signs of abusive behaviour (or perhaps just more women who are willing to admit that it is happening?), and more broken homes.  I wonder if this is related to the increasing tourism here.  

 

Does our presence here – the way we live, the things we do, the ideas we may share, especially with the indigenous people – sow the seeds of discontent?  They see us as rich, free, and able to do whatever we want – the people they have heard about, or maybe seen in movies.  We believe we all live the ‘good life’ that they desire (never mind how unrealistic their vision of our lives may be).  And so, by our very presence, we may well be disrupting a very old, and very traditional way of life.  Certainly that seems to be the view of the police here.  They’re not too fond of us gringos – we are giving the ‘natives’ ideas… .

 

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The generator that runs the pump that brings lake water up to the pueblo has just started up again (5 pm).  Like an old prop-plane, sputtering, hammering away.  I have come to watch the women wash, again.  I wonder if or how I could fit into a community, a society, a culture, such as this.  What separates us really from one another?  Skin colour, clothes, language the obvious things.  But customs, expectations, and desires are more significant.  As much as some of us may idealize and yearn for ‘a simpler life’, would we really be prepared to live it?  

 

Somewhere a bird is crying out, in a high-pitched tone “you! you! you!”  Accusation? Appeal?  I want to relax and enjoy the beauty of this lake, the hills and volcanoes that surround it, the early morning and late afternoon mists, the spectacular wildflowers scattered everywhere about, the glorious coolness of a mid-day swim, the texture and colour of all of the life here.  I am overwhelmed at times with the richness of it all, at other times pensive about the impacts our gringo presence may be having, and my contribution, however small, to that dynamic.

 

Like a few nights ago, when a group of us went up to the ‘tienda’ where an old woman makes choco-bananas.  If you go during the day you find her peeling and slicing bananas, preparing them for their chocolate bath.  This night her husband was also there, using a pocket-knife to whittle the little skewers for the bananas.  His wife got up to serve us; he continued to sit and whittle, muttering under his breath about people who can’t even afford coffee… .  

 

Later, after choco-bananas and hanging around in the town square watching everyone else also hanging around in the town square, I stand in the pale glow of a semi-distant street lamp.  I watch the lake, the stars, the passing shadows.  I listen to the sound of lapping wavelets, as slowly begins the nightly chorus of canine callings – echoing across the bay, the echo more haunting than the original.  I look across the bay at eight or ten very large and bright lights, the only lights, really, around the bay.  These lights encircle the coffee-drying plant, the one surrounded by barb-wire fences and guarded, night and day, by men with guns, because if not the people would steal the coffee….

                         Coffee plantation and coffee drying hut, or resting hut for workers

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Perched on a ragged rock in a quiet little bay 

basking in the hot mid-day sun

my skirt drying, my books lying, my thoughts wandering   

I look across the stuccoed teal blue surface of the lake toward the distant shore slightly misted, so seeming more distant still, more ethereal

I listen to the lip-lap of the riplets here below me 

the warm breeze that rustles through the grasses greeno

the songs of birds, seen and unseen, the buzz of bees

I sit here in this beautiful, peaceful, magical place

In the land of the long-time sun

where all love surrounds me

a place it would be so easy to rest in for a long long while

and knowing that the clear light within me will lead me on...