Memories of 2010

We began 2010 in our upstairs apartment in Brentwood. We were probably wearing yellow underwear.

 I was on a flight to Guatemala on New Years' Day. It was my second trip with the Farmer Solidarity Project. 

I quit my job and took up non-profit pursuits.

I planned and executed (with the help of many, many generous people) a fundraiser for the Farmer Solidarity Project, to help fund a third trip to Guatemala.

I went to Washington, D.C. for the first time.

Brentwood experienced a peak period of violence and residents finally had enough. I witnessed the birth of a movement to fight violence and hold local politicians accountable, which will hopefully continue to grow in 2011.

My cousin Michael made his First Holy Communion.

The immigration debate heated up with Arizona's SB1070, and I witnessed two crowds on opposite sides of the street (and the debate) yell at each other.

We celebrated my cousin Matias' baptism.

I led a student delegation to Guatemala, my third trip with the Farmer Solidarity Project.

My Dad's childhood friend came to visit, and I spent a wonderful day with him in NYC.

I went to Detroit for the U.S. Social Forum and participated in the biggest activist march I've seen.

The family went camping for the 4th of July.

My Dad and I harvested vegetables from our first backyard garden.

I attended a farewell party for a pair of coworkers, and a few months later resumed employment at the law firm I had left at the end of January.

I helped my cousin Camilo move to New Orleans to start his PhD.

My cousin Max was baptized.

I saw K'Naan live in concert with my sis and Rachael.

The very next day, my "seestas" and I went to the So You Think You Can Dance live tour at Radio City Music Hall.

I bought a car.

At my Mom's behest, we started going to a holistic doctors' office, and began a serious effort to achieve health.

I contracted a parasite (maybe) from my cat, and my parents took him to a shelter. He caused a lot of stress, with his fleas and tail-biting issues, and tendency to harass guests. But he was sweet and I miss him.

I went to a bubble show with Maya, Lorenzo, Ana and Steve. (That's Maya's hand in the front row.) Over the summer, I had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with my "babiez" and I was proud to play the part of "Super-Titi" for a while. My bond with my cousin Ana also grew stronger.

We checked off a few NYC bucket list items by seeing the Rockettes in the Christmas Spectacular and taking pictures in Rockefeller Center by the tree.

The day after Christmas, we drove down to New Orleans to spend New Years' with Camilo. An ancient bartender with a young man's spirit and sense of humor invited us behind the bar for a picture.

2010 was a year filled with lots and lots of joy, in large part because of the wonderful babies that have joined our family.

Of course, there are important events and moments that were not captured in photographs or videos. There were peaks and valleys, but most days just flew right past me. Yet this year has been immensely memorable. 

Turning 25 was huge. It forced me to reflect and judge myself. Sometimes I judged harshly. Other times I let myself off too easily. Now I know that I need to:

- visualize my goals (thank you, Fredo); 

- ask for help when I need it (thank you, Rachael); 

- encourage creativity (thank you, Teresa);

- chill out, relax and be patient with people (thank you, Mom); 

- extend the olive-branch and move on (thank you, Jess); 

- remember that there are people who will never judge me (thank you, Joey);

- do what I say I'm going to do (thank you, Dad);

- mejorar el Español, carajo! (gracias, Ivancho);

- try, even if I am sure I'll fail (thank you, Camilo);

- know that there is one person who can always make me laugh (thank you, Steph); and

- love and forgive myself (thank you, Grecia).

I'm ready for 2011.

Leaving New York to spend New Years in New Orleans

We beat the blizzard and drove down to spend this week with our dear Camilo. This morning we took a walk around the block, and took some photos. You can definitely tell we're in NOLA.

We saw a tree branch that looks like a reindeer. Or a moose. But it's Christmas, so let's say reindeer.

Rock Bottom

Friday night I hit rock bottom.

Friday morning I went to my 9:30 kickboxing class. I was very proud of myself for making it, because the night before I went out (drinking) and got home late. After the class, I spent way too long looking for the final piece of the 3-part gift for my New York Cares Winter Wishes letter. Then I showered, got dressed, and drove to Westbury for my hair appointment. I was an hour late to the appointment and I had to wait at the salon. I paid for my cut and the receptionist gave me a custom-made chocolate bar with the name of the salon on the wrapper.

That was the only thing I ate the whole day.

I rushed home, wrapped my gift, put on makeup and drove to the LIRR train station. The plan was to take the train into work, drop off the gift, and then make it to the company holiday party.

At Jamaica station, I had the choice of getting off the train and switching to an express train to Penn Station. I hesitated. The doors closed, and I missed that opportunity.

That was my first mistake.

Two men in orange vests walked swiftly down the aisle of the train. Announcements were made that the train was having equipment problems. An hour and a half later, we had switched to another train and made it to Penn Station. I had the thought of quickly getting a slice of pizza to calm my hunger, but I figured I was almost at the party and there would be food there, so I just got straight on the subway.

That was my second mistake.

I got off the E train at 53rd and 5th, and dropped off the gift. Then I got back on the train and spent way too long trying to find the hotel where the party was being held. I bought a Santa hat for the party. I had armpit stains from the stress.

I finally found the party and immediately ordered a drink. I mingled, received compliments for my Santa hat, and drank more. Everywhere I turned I found someone to say something to, and I would leave them to get refills. I started many conversations, and I wonder if I finished any.

At some point I saw that people were lining up for food. My best friend and colleague said she was getting pasta from a different line, and asked if I wanted to get some. I said I didn't want pasta.

That was my third mistake.

Very shortly after that I began to black out. I don't remember leaving the company party, but I remember walking to the after-party. My memory is spotty, but there are flashes of events. Talking to a man dressed in all black. Ordering three sambuca shots. Frantically looking for my wallet. Going into a bathroom stall. Waking up in Long Island, hearing my sister's voice and feeling her hold me by the arm, taking me to the car where my parents were waiting. The next day my pajamas were on backwards.

It was incredibly stupid to drink without eating...at a party...with my coworkers/bosses/future references. I'm so ashamed.

So many questions left unanswered.

What did I do? What did I say?

Who saw me? Who heard me?

What do people think of me now?

I've never wanted a rewind button so badly before.

And what happened to my Santa hat?

Self-Therapy, Session Two: What I Hate To Do

I hate admitting I'm wrong, so I hate apologizing - really apologizing.

I hate fighting with my Dad...who also hates apologizing. We never really make up. No resolution, no progress. No lessons learned. Time passes and eventually we move on. I hate the time between our fight and when we realize things are back to normal. I hate the cold way we greet each other during this phase. We're never rude, just completely unaffectionate. Minimal eye contact. Awkward silences. Closed doors.

I hate feeling guilty after I eat compulsively.

I hate that I read slowly and can't remember exactly what I read. "I remember concepts, not so much details," I say to make myself feel better.

I hate waiting in line.

I hate when I snore on the train and everyone sees through that cough I just faked to disguise the snore.

I hate that I can never, ever own up to a fart.

I hate that I'm not enough of a feminist to stop shaving.

I hate that I need to drink copious amounts of alcohol to feel comfortable dancing.

I hate that I stopped taking piano lessons.

I hate that I forgot all the French I ever learned.

My parents once told me a story about my childhood. When I was about 6 years old, my parents bought me a whole matching bedroom set at Sears. Excited, they cleaned and organized my room and surprised me. When they opened the door, my reaction was: "This isn't the one I wanted." I didn't say it with an angry or bratty tone, but the damage had been done. I broke their hearts, perhaps for the first time. I hate that I did that. Sure, I was young and too honest and "pure" to tell a lie, even a noble one. I've never forgiven myself for that.

I hate owing someone a phone call.

I hate that I scored below 1200 on my SATs.

I hate that I'm terrible at estimating, measuring, budgeting, and making time.

I hate 69.

I hate that I spend more time talking about myself and not enough time with my sister.

I hate that I am weak-willed and lack discipline.

I hate my acne and stretch marks.

I hate that I have such little patience with my sister.

I hate that I fear looking stupid so much that I miss out on countless opportunities.

Self-Therapy, Phase One: Who Am I?

The theme song.

A good friend recently explained to me that her confidence stemmed from knowing exactly who she is. When she asked what I love to do, I couldn't answer. Because my spirits were low, I felt that I wasn't good at anything, and therefore could not love to do anything. This exercise in self-therapy - identifying what I love to do, and doing it - is my first step towards achieving clarity and peace. It was originally meant to be private, but I believe I can benefit from opening up and sharing.

December 5, 2010: Day One. Task: Figure out what I love to do.
`I love to organize and clean things. I love doing yoga. I love kickboxing. I love getting massages. I love watching slam poetry performances. I love watching great movies. I love making love. I love eating delicious food. I love hiking and being outside. I love spending quality time with my family. I love reading and discussing books. I love to figure out puzzles and people. I love playing House of the Dead. I love to laugh. I love when people talk to me. I love playing with babies and kids. I love learning about Latin America. I love going in a sauna and then taking a shower. I love deep conversations that come effortlessly. I love to feel things deeply, which probably means that I love to cry. I love those rare moments when I think I'm pretty. I love making connections with people and becoming friends. I love tickling. I love kissing. I love hearing serious people laugh. I love finding the perfect gift for someone. I still love to color. I love listening to stories. I love taking Maya into my garden and watching her pick tomatoes and devour them. I love making babies smile at me. I love noticing things few people do.

Next: What I hate to do, but must. What I hate to do, and must stop doing.

The first step is identifying the problem.

Caught in a bad romance

Ashamed of my lack of confidence.

Ashamed that I care this much what men think.

Ashamed that I have become superficial.

Ashamed that I've abandoned my activism and volunteerism.

(Although I feel they've abandoned and rejected me, too.)

Ashamed that I'm so vulnerable to rejection.

Longing to be tougher, more resilient, less willing to take everything lying down.

Where is my fiery spirit?

When did I become this fragile?

Incomplete

It feels like I'm on the cusp of normalcy, at a crossroads where I can either choose a normal life with semi-respectable hobbies, or an adventurous life that is uncertain, unpredictable, and exhilarating.

But is choice an illusion? My application can either be approved or denied, and that would change my journey. Does that mean someone else is deciding my path? Does thinking that it's out of my hands make me a coward?

As days continue to pass without a single call from the places where I have applied, I feel closer to a life where I continue to live on Long Island, help start a day care, waitress on the weekends, meet a normal guy with similar frustrated ambitions, and marriage baby carriage. We'd make tax-deductible donations and plan "adventurous" vacations.

I could be happy that way. Right?

I'm a slacker

So many cool (and not so cool) things have happened that would have been awesome to post in this blog, but I have not finished posting about my Guatemala journey. Sigh.

Day Seven: A Challenging Hike to Covadonga

I woke up early and anxiously started getting ready for our trip to Covadonga, the community at the highest elevation. I was really nervous about the hike because it was extremely steep and takes about 45 minutes. I was worried about Stephanie, too. She woke up feeling nauseous and with diarrhea, so I told her to stay in Sepacay.

We set off with Pedro as our guide and I made it pretty far without needing a break, but I ended up breaking about four times up the mountain, then we kept going farther than I had been in August 2009, so I needed to rest another four times. My thighs were on fire and ready to give out at any moment.

At one point I told Jarret that if we had to keep going for another 15 minutes I would have puked – I had reached that level of exhaustion. I was soaked from head to toe in sweat. I could actually taste my salty sweat, which was just pouring down my face and finding its way to my eyes, stinging. It was quite a challenge, but it felt good that I was able to complete the hike.

We were up in the clouds and it was misty. It seemed like it was always raining, always foggy.

Pedro brought us to a room full of aromatic wood and brought us breakfast, even though I’d told him we already ate. The eggs were oily and delicious, but I just could not muster up an appetite. A bony dog approached us and I began wondering if I could give him my food, which would just be wrong on so many levels because food is scarce for the people, and even more so for the dogs.

Then Jarret threw a piece of a tortilla to the dog and I decided to risk it and threw my eggs and beans at the dog until my plate was empty. The dog was grateful – I knew because he didn’t leave my side. I was paranoid the community members would realize what I had done.

A while after breakfast, many of the men came and gathered around us. Then I said our hello’s and thank you’s and began dividing up the vegetable seeds we had brought. That was such a nightmare! They had decided that instead of planting one large community garden, each family would get a few seeds. But that meant some families only got one pepper or one cucumber seed. There were tons of onion seeds so we tried to divide them in 30 piles for 30 families, but when the men were told to take a pile, there were dozens of hands reaching and taking more than just one pile. It was loud and chaotic, and some of them could see the disappointment in my face. Next time, I thought, I’ll have to divide the seeds before I leave the US. It wasn’t enough just to divide the seeds into 4 communities.

Then I asked about making the stove, since the supplies had already been delivered, but they were having a hard time deciding where to build it. They kept looking to me to make decisions, but how could I decide? Plus, that’s not what we’ve done in the past. We’re not a bunch of gringos coming to impose order, but it did remind me of what Juan Tiney said about them not knowing how to work the land because they were so used to being under a boss and being told what to do. There was not one obvious leader among them.

Finally, it was somehow decided that Pedro would build the next stove in his house. Then they presented us with a paper, a petition written in very good Spanish. Those who were literate signed their names, and the rest signed with their thumbprint.

They asked for roofs, and doing the math, it would only be about $231 for each family to have a tin roof. I told them I’d talk to William and CONIC…and at the mention of CONIC, conversations began and lasted for a while. Finally, I asked if someone was mad, and they laughed and said No, they were just discussing whether I would go to the CONIC office and present them with the petition. They also mentioned that they have not been able to pay CONIC’s yearly dues of 20 quetzales [$2.50] per family. I wondered about their relationship with CONIC, but every time I asked, I wouldn’t get a straight answer.

I also wondered about homosexuality here and sex, in general. I mean, there really isn’t any privacy in the homes, and I wondered how often they have sex for pleasure. I imagined they do it whenever the husband wants, and it made me appreciate American and European culture of free sexuality and the idea that women deserve to be satisfied.

Then we walked around and saw all the stoves that had been built recently and took pictures. The stoves in Sepacay were neater, but Covadonga did pretty well despite not having any technical accompaniment.

After seeing the last stove, I tried to lead a composting workshop, which amounted to me just talking and pointing. They said they would try the whole composting thing in a few months because the corn had already been planted. I think the only way we can get them to take up composting is if someone stays here long term and does a test plot to show how much more it will yield.

One old man, who I remember from last trip because he asked for more seeds for his own garden, asked when we were coming back and I said that we’d try for August, but I wasn’t sure. He emphasized that we needed to come back as soon as possible because who knows if he’d still be alive. He said that in all seriousness, and it got to me. Talk about immediate needs! Sure, there needs to be a balance between projects with short-term goals and those with long-term goals. You run into trouble when you only focus on one of the two.

Then we had lunch and it tasted just like the carne en bistec that my mom makes! It was delicious and such a treat to have meat. Then we waited for light rain and began walking back the long way (not down that super steep and slick slope). This was the route that trucks take, and it was still pretty steep, but not nearly as muddy and dangerous. It took us 1.5 hours as opposed to 45 minutes up the mountain. It poured and I was soaked from head to toe in sweat and rain.

Once in Sepacay, I changed clothes and took a 2 hour nap. Then I hung out with the kids and they taught me some words. I was glad that Isaias came by to help. His cousin is the teacher, Cesar, and he’s such a smart kid, even knowing a bit of English. Then we had dinner, which was soup with chicken – possibly duck – and potatoes and guisquil and cabbage and lime. It was such a treat!

Then eventually Cesar came by and said hello. We talked for a long time and I even teared up a few times. He talked about how he wanted to cross the border into the US, but he was scared because if they captured him and sent him back, he wouldn’t be able to try again many times because then he’d be in debt. We talked about Arizona and Obama’s promise of immigration reform, and he shared a conversation they had among teachers, criticizing how Guatemala receives foreigners with open arms but the US doesn’t let Guatemalans in. I told him there were many people in the US who believe that same thing is unfair, but the people in power haven’t done anything about it, because they’re only interested in accumulating power and money. He said one interesting thing about Afghanistan – he said they don’t believe in God there. I told him they do, but his name is Allah. He asked about religions in the US and he told me he went to an Evangelical church because he liked it better than the Catholic church.

I had mixed feelings about him wanting to go to the US because he was such an asset being a teacher here – improving the education for so many kids. But how could I say that he should stay, especially when I’m so grateful that my parents didn’t decide to stay in Colombia? What hypocrisy! I’m grateful for my parents’ choice because I had the chance to attend Boston University and study in Spain for a semester, and work on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. And my parents left conditions in Colombia that were much better than Cesar’s. I mean, sometimes I do wonder what it would have been like if we had stayed in Colombia. I wonder if I’d be the same person – besides being much thinner, but would I have been a dumb plastic Colombian girl? Would I have had the same political inclinations? Would I have learned to dance salsa?

As a sidenote, there was so much litter from bags of chips and candy that kids threw on the floor, and we keep saying how indigenous people protect the Earth, but the bottles and bags of chips throw a monkey wrench in the whole thing. They'd say, "Deje que eso se pudre." ["Leave it because it rots."] No it doesn’t, actually. Not for hundreds of years. They burn all their garbage, and there should be an effort to change the kids’ habits of just chucking the garbage on the floor.

But I was happy to have such a conversation with Cesar because he assured me that they were happy to have us come and assess needs and provide support whenever possible. I was glad to hear that because I do wonder sometimes whether we really are having a positive impact.

Day Six: First (and only) Stove Built

Breakfast was a challenge. We looked at the bland noodles mixed with really moist rice and a side of canned refried beans, and the generous women who graciously fed us were watching our every move. We swallowed every spoonful, feeling guilty.

After a while, Ricardo picked us up and we walked over to the house where they were building the newest stove. It was one of the first times that I’d been inside a house, and it was definitely one of the nicer houses in the community.

The woman of the house was outside washing some clothes, but she showed us the place in the kitchen where she grinds the corn for the tortillas.

So we got to work, but of course we didn’t help all that much. First, there was a lot to discuss in q'eqchi and no one was particularly worried about translating conversations.

Ricardo knew what to do and he lead the construction process. We gathered dirt and poured it in the holes of the cement blocks. When my sister and I grabbed the shovel and bucket and tried to gather dirt ourselves, the kids made us hand the tools over because they just did it so much better.

Jarret’s a certified mason so he helped with the cement and also the digging part. He tried to show them a cementing technique, but they didn’t repeat it. My guess is that it looked like too much cement would be used that way. But, it's always a struggle to convince other people to do anything another way.

As always, the kids demanded our attention. So, we appeased them and they sang for us.

Day Five: Buying stove supplies

Today was shopping day. I decided to leave Jarret and Stephanie in Sepacay, with the task of sorting out the vegetable seeds to be divided among the four q’eqchi communities (Sepacay, Chichicaste, Covadonga, and Xochela). I would travel into town to purchase the stove supplies.

A truck pulled up at 5:40 and as soon as I got on, I felt foreign – which doesn’t usually happen to me. As promised, Ramiro got on the truck with me at his stop in Chichicaste. He asked me why I wasn’t seated in the front seat with the driver and I said I didn’t ask, and it was no big deal. Like always, I wanted to endure just the same as everybody else. I hoped that my insisting on being treated like everybody else would be appreciated.

Eventually we made it to Tucuru and to the parish, and to my great surprise, Juan Tzib was right there waiting for us! I asked him if he had a headache (from the hangover) and he smiled and said “A little.”

The driver (Alfredo) got out to stretch his legs and asked if I wanted to ride up front and I reluctantly, but with a smile, agreed. Everyone smiled.

We set off for Tactic, a town nearby with all the hardware stores we needed to purchase the stove supplies. I sat in between the driver and Ramiro, and the seat was not as soft as I had hoped. I kept thinking to myself that I felt more foreign than usual. Perhaps it was that foreign feeling that inspired thoughts like, “I want to do this in Colombia” and “These are not my people.” I felt guilty about the latter. Of course these are my people! But I just didn’t feel the warmth that I felt on previous trips.

We went to the hardware store “El Obrero” [The Laborer] and I had my next moment of panic as a leader when I found out they didn’t have enough stove stops for us because I hadn’t confirmed that I was coming, so he didn’t order them from a third party. However, we quickly realized that we needed to cut our order in half because the last trip, in January, had many more participants, hence a much bigger budget, and they had bought twice as many stoves as I was counting on this time. This was an oversight on my part, but one that ended up being positive because I was no longer worried about going over budget!

We ended up buying 4 stove tops that were on display. Juan Carlos “saved us money” by recommending we buy the cement blocks at another store. We went there and made our order. While they loaded our truck, the owner struck up a conversation with me.

“Where are you from?”

“How long have you been here?”

“I thought you were from the US.”

It’s always the same conversation for me here.

The owner then started saying how bad he felt for the people who were kidnapped in Colombia (and I once again thought how it doesn’t make sense for me to be doing this work in Guatemala) and that he was in the military in the 70’s before Guatemala’s crazy violent period in the 80’s when kids and old people were locked in churches and burnt to the ground.

Then he complained about corruption in Guatemala’s government and that they shouldn’t just give handouts, that they should make people work (which made me feel bad about the donations we were giving people with the stoves). He kept looking at Ramiro as if he knew I was there giving him free stoves. Because I felt awkward, I tried to remain neutral and inoffensive to both, so I said people are trying to work, but there just aren’t jobs. The owner then shared that when he tried to donate his wife’s old clothes to “poor” people their reaction was to say: “If you’re going to give me clothes, give me new ones.” I assured him that not everybody has that attitude. There was just the slightest racism/xenophobia in his speech, and I tried to be as careful as possible.

Once the bricks and cement blocks were loaded, we headed to another hardware store and bought chimney hoods. The pretty lady at the counter with hazel-green eyes and dirty blonde curly hair waited about 5-10 minutes before she asked where I was from. I stuttered with my response. She was surprised and praised me when told that I was traveling alone, to which I replied, “I’m not alone, I’m with my two friends,” as I pointed to Juan Tzib and Ramiro.

Looking back, I felt only a tiny bit of relief at having these men accompany me. Mostly, I felt awesome because I was in charge and I was a woman in charge. I discovered it’s easy, if not instinctual, to turn to men for advice or help. But when they don’t come through, you can be surprised how well you can handle things on your own.

Then we headed back and it was an awfully long ride. We got stuck in the mud for two hours, until a tractor was hired to help pull us out. I was of no help, except to pay the tractor guy. There were some moments when it looked like I was going to sleep in the truck and I was nervous that my sister would think I died or something. But, I should know by now that there’s always a way. Maybe it was good luck. Some people would thank God. I’m just grateful, in general, that we rescued ourselves out of that. Plus I couldn’t endure another minute of the swarm of flying ants that decided to visit us.

With Ramiro’s help, we distributed what was left of the supplies (because bags of sand were used to give the truck’s wheels some traction in the mud), and dropped off the final pieces well after dark. I gave the driver 200 quetzales more than what he asked, to make up for all the gas lost trying to escape from the mud. He was very grateful.

Once back indoors, Jarret told a ghost story, which I translated into Spanish. That was really sweet of him, but it was awkward to translate a story like that, and most of the kids didn’t really speak Spanish. My sister and I were laughing, too, which really messes up a ghost story.

With the stove supplies purchased and the seeds sorted, we went to bed excited to begin working on our projects the next day.

Day Four: The journey into the q'eqchi communities

Excited to be heading out to mountains at last, we woke up early and met our driver, Fausto, at the hostel. I had to take some Dramamine because of my tendency to get car sick, and I rested most of the way there, listening to my iPod, diverting my eyes from the winding roads and dangerous (yet normal) driving.

Juan Tzib was supposed to meet us at the entrance where the road is no longer paved. But, according to Juan, the roads weren't dangerously muddy, so he decided not to meet us there, without letting us know. I asked Fausto if he would take us to Tucuru, but he wouldn’t because we were in a relatively new “microbus” and in Pavel’s (the chief chauffeur) words: “Their [the locals'] perception of the roads being good is different from ours, so I don’t want to risk it.” In other words: we're used to much better conditions than they are.

So, we jumped into a microbus that locals take for 20 quetzales ($2.50) each and rode into Tucuru.

We finally made it into Tucuru and saw Juan Tzib, who quickly notified us that he was drunk. I was so annoyed! I felt redeemed for all my complaints and judgements about him. I had told the other organizers that there was something fishy about him, and I didn’t like that whenever he was interpreting for us, it really felt like he was leaving out a bunch of things.

Then Ramiro - my favorite q'eqchi man! - from Chichicaste showed up, and we all had lunch, and I refused to give Juan Tzib the beer he asked for. That’s right. You messed up, and I’m not letting you get away with it! We had fried chicken – one small drumstick was my portion. I saw a naked chicken walking around in the restaurant – fully plucked and ready to be fried. Short life span, that skinny chicken, but probably lived a better life than a Tyson chicken in the US.

We had a somewhat labored conversation about various things, but one thing that stuck out and was important was that there is a community that’s having problems with another community encroaching on their territory. The concern is that CONIC’s image as a competent advocate for the people is suffering.

We finished lunch and Juan Tzib left. Ramiro rode on the back of the pick-up truck with us, along with about 15 other locals. It was a tough ride! We were standing the whole time and poor Jarret kept leaning all his weight on me. I tried to suck it up for as long as possible, but my left arm was getting weaker by the second and I was afraid it would give out. Stephanie suggested that I sit, and there was enough space for me to do so. At first I refused, because I wanted to endure the same conditions as everyone else, but after a while I thought my arm was going to give out so I had to sit.

Then it started to pour. I gave Stephanie my poncho, like a good big sister. But we got soaked and every time Stephanie shifted positions, water that had accumulated on her poncho would spill directly on me. Right before we pulled into the first village (Sepacay), I saw Herlinda (one of the more outgoing girls) and some other kids who recognized me. The locals in the truck looked at me funny when they saw the kids were calling my name. Finally we made it to Sepacay and I had barely any strength left in my arms. I looked around for Victor, my 13-year old boyfriend, but I didn’t see him and I was sad. [Boots, I know you're laughing right now.]

Ramiro stuck around for a while, and I tried to call Juan Tzib but he said he’d call me back, which he never did. We didn’t have electricity in this village this time around, so I turned off the cell phone to conserve battery life. Before I did, I sent Juan a text message saying to meet us at 7:00AM at the parish.

Then it was time to entertain the curious kids! I brought coloring books and a jigsaw puzzle.

And then Victor showed up!

Guatemala: NGO meeting and Arrival of Participants

Day Two

After a lazy morning drifting in and out of sleep at the hostel, I finally rose and showered. It was electric! Literally. Every time I touched the metal shower knobs, ankle-deep in water, I felt a painful shock. Looking back, I suppose it would have been quite comical to watch me try all kinds of awkward ways to shut off the water without getting shocked (towels were used, much stretching was involved).

The hostel provided breakfast: deliciously salty scrambled eggs and toast - perfectly portioned. The hostel employees were curious about me, and asked if I was Costa Rican because of my accent. I had a nice conversation with Marisol, who was in a terrible car accident years ago and lost a son.

I took a taxi into Zona 1 in Guatemala City to meet with Juan Tiney, an important member of CONIC (Coordinadora Nacional Indigena y Campesina), the NGO that my group, Farmer Solidarity Project, partners with.



I found a video (in Dutch or something) about Juan Tiney - which a Spanish-speaker will be able to understand most of. I also found some information about CONIC in a website called Hivos (Human Institute for Development Cooperation), an organization that strives for a fair, free, and sustainable world by working with local organizations in developing countries to promote equal access to resources and opportunities for development. That's information I obtained from their website, so I don't know anything else about the group. It could be a monster of an organization for all I know.

So I had a one-hour conversation with Juan Tiney, and I learned that CONIC organizes on various fronts, including agriculture, land rights, political organization, and against mining. They only have one lawyer and two legal assistants. Their office is big, nice, and there were two women dressed in traditional indigenous clothing. One of them was making calls and photocopies, and the other was typing on the computer. She had been working there for more than seven years. It was cool to see them in traditional clothes but typing and completing general office tasks.

I had a much better conversation this time around with Juan Tiney. Last time I spoke to him, in August 2009, he was authoritative and patronizing. He kept telling our group not to bring Eucalyptus because it's an invasive plant that sucks up a lot of water, even though we had never said we would bring seeds for Eucalyptus. He just kept repeating it ad nauseam.

This time, and perhaps because it was just me and not a whole group of gringos, he was positive and more willing to listen. He spoke to our liaison, Juan Tzib, who delivered some bad news about weather and blocked roads, but I learned that there is always a way. The key is maintaining relationships.

For a moment, I felt like I could really do this work. I've discovered over time that I have just enough charisma, and with my language skills and organizing instincts, I really do think that I'm cut out for this. I can fundraise. I have good ideas. I'll never give up because I know where my heart is. Plus, I'm young and I know what I want. I just need to develop expertise in sustainable international development, which I have decades to accomplish.

I went to bed that night happy because I had time alone to think and reflect, and because it felt like I was going down the right path.

Day Three

I woke up tired because I felt my sickness returning. I had a headache, my ears were beginning to hurt again, and my throat pain was back. I felt lazy and surprisingly, almost dreaded going to the indigenous communities, but I thought maybe I was just nervous about the budget and the road conditions. In previous trips, our stay felt like an eternity at the communities and I couldn't wait to get back to the hostel to shower and sleep on a mattress.

I wonder if it will be the same this time.

I hope no one gets sick or hurt.

There was much more worrying this time around, in my role as leader. It's much different being an organizer because it's not just your own safety you're concerned about. I cursed myself for not ever taking a first-aid course when they were offered in college.

The hostel team thought we would be a group of four, but I had told them that it would only be me, my sister, and the other participant. There was a room available with three beds, and they were trying to split us up into two rooms with two beds each. But Marisol, the hostel's cook and cleaning lady, was totally on my side! She told Byron, the manager, that we wanted to move into the room with three beds. He was annoyed, obviously, since he was counting on more payment, but I didn't feel badly about our request. The hostel's computer didn't have a functioning mouse, and Stephanie was bringing an extra mouse from home, and we've come to this hostel three times in the past year. Our loyalty should be reasonably rewarded.

I went to the airport to pick up the two participants for the trip: Jarret and my sister. On our way back, we bought some mangoes and plantains (which we thought were regular bananas) from the back of a pick-up truck. After a nap, we went to the Plaza Fontabela (a nice mall nearby) and had dinner. But before we left the hostel, we realized there were some French-Canadians there. Naturally, the one guy with light eyes, shaved head, and a light and scruffy beard caught my eye. But I was too shy to talk directly to him, of course.

On our way home, I negotiated down the price of the taxi, since we are always charged more when there isn't a taxi meter. We went to bed early because we were going to be picked up the following morning at 7:00 AM to head over to the indigenous communities.

Guatemala, Trip Number Three

Day One

I, the incorrigible procrastinator, finished packing two hours before having to wake up and drive to the airport. It's still very painful to swallow. I've not fully recovered from an ear infection/strep throat.

My sister and father drop me off at John F. Kennedy International Airport, and begin their drive to Philadelphia. Stephanie's passport had expired, and in order to meet me in Guatemala two days later, she had to schedule an emergency appointment in Philadelphia.

It's 4 AM and I'm in line at JFK. As I breeze through the self check-in machine, I watch other people struggle. I decide that the movement towards complete automation can only really work with younger generations that have been raised with much exposure to computers. I'm relieved to see there are (human) airport employees there to help.

Flying is a classist endeavor. You become very aware of your socio-economic status. Business and First class always board first, and their section is separated by a curtain on the plane for privacy. Is the curtain there so that we - the main cabin - can't see their enormous leather seats, their free blankets, the cocktails that are constantly being refilled? Or is it so that the First Class isn't bothered by us?

The system is brilliantly designed for you to be tempted to upgrade and pay exorbitant prices because you want to be treated nicely, and given special privileges. We're used to more egalitarian services...or...just used to being on the other side of special treatment.

After a brief wait in the Miami airport, I boarded my connecting flight and a few hours later arrived in Guatemala City. I walked outside and didn't see my hostel's shuttle bus, so I decided to walk to the hostel with my big hiking bag on my back. A young redhead named "Shai" stopped me and asked - in English - if I was local. I fought back a giant grin. She was standing next to a Guatemalan man who drove a shuttle bus to Antigua.

"No, but I speak Spanish, if that's what you need," I said.

But she was just concerned about the safety of taking one of the shuttle buses. She actually asked me if she would get robbed on the bus. I told her I didn't think so, but how could I guarantee that? Overall, common sense tells you that you'll be charged extra for the convenience of being picked up right at the airport and dropped off right at the door of your hotel in Antigua. Common sense also tells you that people would have complained if the buses were dangerous.

She thanked me and I turned toward the street and walked to my hostel. It was no easy feat. The bags were heavy and it was hot. I was slightly nervous that I was being too ambitious and careless. Although I was an easy target - tired and alone, and clearly carrying all of my things - including money - I knew it was a seven minute walk, and I figured it would be a very public crime to rob me in the middle of the day.

I arrived at Hostal Los Volcanes safely and the receptionist was surprised that I had walked. I settled into my private room with bathroom (yes!) and rested, then purchased a mobile phone, sent two quick emails (on a computer with no working mouse) and proceeded to take notes on the project's budget. I made a few important calls, and then began to stress out about my first mistake as the trip leader. I did not call the hardware stores ahead of time to figure out the exact cost of the stoves before leaving. It looked like I would go way over budget.

The man at the hardware store (Juan Carlos) suggested I look for alternative transport, since the cost of delivering the supplies was so high. I called Ramiro, one of the campesinos from the community of Chichicaste. He said he would find a driver and a truck. I felt temporary relief at the possibility of finding a solution, but I was immobilized for a good twenty minutes, disappointed in myself. Conscious of the very tight budget, I decided not to eat dinner. I wasn't that hungry, and I wanted to practice being hungry. (I realize how silly that sounds.)

I did a lot of reading on the history of CONIC (Coordinadora Nacional Indigena y Campesina), the NGO that we work with on these Guatemala delegations, and admired the work it had done, especially in historical context.

Reading soon led me straight to slumber.

Coming soon: Days Two and Three - Meeting with NGO and The Arrival of Participants