Well, as many of you have asked for more details of my life here, and as it isn’t as though there are terribly many events to report, this email is going to be a bit more descriptive than the last. Not promising purple prose, but I’ll try to go a bit deeper into what the Western Highlands of Guatemala look like, at least from the Nahualense perspective.
As those of you who tried to find Nahuala on the map may have noticed, my spelling last time is not the only one. Nahualha, Nahuala, and, in K’iche’, Nawalja’ are all apparently acceptable spellings, though I guess Nahuala is the most widely used. It’s not a town you’re going to find in many of the guidebooks – the Rough Guide to Guatemala mentions it in passing as a good market town but not a place to stay, as, according to them but not to us, the locals are hostile to outsiders and the local shamans are known for their black magic (hah). But via googlemaps or some such, look west of Lake Atitlan along the Pan-American Highway just a bit before it forks. Nawalja’ translates to something like “place of the water spirits” and there is a (now trash filled) river that runs through town and, according to some, is still home to the nawals/nahuals.
In the town center, the old adobe homes have been replaced by cement block buildings painted in white and various pastel shades. The market – Thursdays and Sundays – is held in front of the Cathedral and in the surrounding side streets. As it is the largest center for a ways around, the otherwise empty cobblestone and mud streets fill up with blue plastic tarp stalls under which an amazing variety of goods are to be found – beans and corn, shoes new and used, huipils and the blue cloth used to make skirts (cortes or uq’), cds and dvds, all manner of fruit, toiletry, and school supply, and who knows what else. I haven’t yet been here for a Sunday market, but I’m planning on staying at least one weekend to see what I can find. I suppose you’d say it’s much more “authentic” as few tourists come through; this means basically that the arts and crafts are sparser but probably more reasonably priced while the every day goods are much more diverse.
As to everyday Nahuala, most people in town are indigenous K’iche’ speakers; generally only men speak Spanish, though with expanded bilingual education, younger generations are more likely to be fluent as well. Men primarily wear Western style clothing – pants and shirts – though occasionally you’ll see an older man in the traditional koxtar (a vaguely kilt-like affair with small white shorts underneath) and kutin (a long-sleeved shirt in light colors); sometimes you even get a rather amusing mix of the two – koxtar with a brand name t-shirt and baseball cap. Women, except younger girls, continue to wear traditional traje – dark blue corte (skirt) tied with an embroidered faja and a huipil on top. While huipils continue to be identified with particular towns – there are a few styles native to Nahuala, mostly involving red or orange embroidery on a white or navy base – the trend recently has been to wear huipils from other parts of Guatemala, with different towns going in and out of style. As well, among younger women especially, the corte will often be worn with an American style shirt and sweater instead of the huipil. It all makes for a rather dazzling array of dress. My family has offered to dress me up many times, and as soon as I have photos, I’ll send them along. From those girls in our group who have been dressed up in traje, I’m dreading how tight my host sister will wrap my faja, as apparently in addition to keeping the corte up, it’s supposed to accentuate my waist and make me look guapa.
School starts around 8:30 every morning, meaning I leave home around 8, having woken up and eaten an early breakfast with my little “sister” and “niece” before they head to school at 7:30. Breakfast is generally around the wood stove in the kitchen area, where we are joined by the three family cats – Tigre, Q’eq (Black), and Missi Puss – who seem to enjoy a life of sitting together on one chair staring at the fire all day. Mike’l now trusts me to make it to school on my own every day, and as I walk, I greet everyone I pass with “Saqirik” (good morning) or “Jeba’” (roughly goodbye, though it’s also used as a greeting-in-passing). It’s very impolite to not say anything to those people you see, and if the person is older, a respectful “nan” or “tat” is also expected. Occasionally I’m questioned by older women as to where I’m going – this is their right – and one of the first phrases we were taught was “Kinb’e pa tijobal” (I’m going to school), as this is always an acceptable answer guaranteed to dispel any potential gossip.
Gossip is one of the biggest concerns of our professors and families, as “co-resident kin groups” (as they’re called by anthropologists) are very closed with information, and we don’t want to expose any of our host families to slander. Thus, we’re expected to be exceptionally polite, not spend too much time with any person of the opposite sex, and wear loose-fitting, non-revealing clothing. Pants haven’t proven to be a problem (though we were warned to be careful with them), but we’ve all put away any skirts that reveal anything above mid-calf and keep our shoulders well covered. As it’s pretty chilly, this has been relatively easy so far. Fashion has mostly gone out the window – as expected – and we’re all sure to come away from this summer with some amusing photos of very bundled up and mismatched friends.
Nahuala is very hilly, and we all go up and down many slopes on our way to school. We pass numerous churches – the central Cathedral as well as a growing number of evangelical churches –, corn fields with cows and goats grazing on the edges, local schools, and the seemingly never ending expansion projects on the Pan-American Highway. Most people are friendly and encouraging of our K’iche’ greetings, though the smaller kids generally laugh and point and sometimes older folks join in, especially if someone is dressed up in traje. Tuc-tucs – the three-wheeled, vaguely golf cart looking vehicles that have become the taxis of Guatemala – often pass and offer us rides if they’re not already occupied, but I think we’re all determined to conquer the altitude and long steep hills and work off the carbohydrate-loaded meals we eat, and so we decline.
By the time we reach school – as we’re all going at the same time, we usually find each other on the road – we’re all ready for the real coffee we’ve imported from Panajachel, bought from a rather obsessed American who worked as a coffee bean buyer for many years before setting up shop in Panajachel. Guatemalans don’t drink coffee American style, but rather prepare a very weak brew from NesCafe, and so we’re all very grateful to our teachers for having splurged on these excellent beans (organic and free trade, of course). I’m not the biggest coffee drinker at home, but after this summer I think I’ll have joined the ranks as the caffeine deprivation headaches I’m going to have if I try and quit will be hell. Class lasts til about noon, when we break for a long lunch prepared by a local family and carried up to the school in baskets on women’s heads. Then it’s a few hours of homework and one-on-one/two-on-one conversation with our local teachers, occasional lectures, and we head back to town to find the internet, drink something warm in the center, or return home.
Evenings at home mostly center around me practicing what I’ve learned that day, trying to figure out what the family is saying while gathered in the kitchen to make and eat dinner (sometimes we eat in the “dining room,” but everyone seems more comfortable around the kitchen fire), and, if it’s a Tuesday or Thursday, bathing in the tuj. While most of the other host families have a shower, mine has yet to install one, and so I get to clean up in the traditional temascal (Spanish for tuj). Essentially, this is a one-person sauna with one large bucket of very hot water and one of cold water that the bather mixes in a smaller tub before using another, even smaller, bucket to dump the water over him or herself. Generally lit with just a candle, the tuj has a wooden bench to sit on while bathing, and is big enough that, as one of my friends put it, many children are conceived in there. This fact often leads to lots of joking about going in the tuj with another person, but despite much such laughing at my expense, I have yet to be intruded upon. Apparently people occasionally do pass out from the heat, so my sisters will call in to make sure I’m still conscious and have enough water. I’m a big fan of the tuj, especially on the colder days, and knowing that I’ll have showers at hostels on weekends, I have no complaints that it’s my only way to stay clean. My host family doesn’t believe me when I tell them that the U.S. equivalent is rather a luxury or that other students are jealous that I get to tuj on a regular basis while they just have showers. It may not be the easiest way to bathe, but I always come out feeling very clean, relaxed, and ready for bed.
My family must think that gringos are unusually sleepy, as I’m generally in bed by 8:30, directly after dinner, but having to think in three languages all day is exhausting and I’m pretty hopeless for anything but writing in my journal and reading any time past 8, let alone 9. With a large pile of wool blankets and my down sleeping bag, I manage to stay toasty at night, and, despite the chorus of dogs that lasts late into the night, I’m getting much more sleep here than I’m used to and thoroughly enjoying it.
Maybe next time I write I’ll have more travels to report, but for now, chichijij iwib’ (take care of yourselves) and chixki’kotoq (be happy)!
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