Ma tooxik chi awk? (Part 1)

Hey World,

This is something that I have been working on for a while. I haven´t been writing much recently, because most of my energy is being spent on dealing with Peace Corps and my miserable living situation. The most recent update is that I have moved into an ecohotel that we have on our site. It is comprised of 8 small rooms, each containing a light and 2 beds. It is still not ideal, but at least now it is quiet enough to fall asleep at night. Getting more food is still a work in progress. Enjoy the first part of this story.

Ma tooxik chi awk?

You are probably wondering about the meaning of my blog post title. Ma tooxik chi awk means “Are we going to sembrar?(plant seed or sow) in Q’eqchi’, the mysterious language of the Mayans who lived, and still live, in northern Guatemala and southern Belize. I did not expect this to be one of my first phrases in Q’eqchi’, but, then again, my service so far has been a lesson in expecting the unexpected. My limits have been tested and my breaking point has been reached and then extended as my reserves for tolerance and discomfort deepen with each passing day. I’ve always been a proponent of the belief that one does not mature and grow significantly until one steps outside of one’s comfort zone, but sometimes I feel like my comfort zone took a one-way flight to Fiji. Nevertheless, no one joins the Peace Corps to continue the life that they have in the States- or at least I certainly hope that is not the intention of aspiring Peace Corps Volunteers- and I came to Guatemala seeking a challenge, a whole new world. I found that here in my tiny rural village, and it is having a profound impact on me. Still not being able to communicate effectively, I attempt to communicate through my actions. Thus, I went to farm; to plant seed; to awk, and I think ended up sowing the seeds of something else.

It started with an off-hand remark by my host father, Don Santiago. He mentioned that he would be going into the fields to sembrar at the end of May and jokingly remarked that I should join him. I pounced on the opportunity and replied that I would be happy to join him and learn how people farm in this area. He laughed off my comment as if to say that there would be no way that I could handle the experience and that my brittle gringo bones would crumble in the process. Ever persistent, I told him that I seriously wanted to come with him to sembrar during the end of May. Don Santiago then proceeded to change the subject, and I got the impression that he assumed I was being facetious in my desire to help him.

Sooner or later it was the end of May, and I still wanted to sembrar. I approached Don Santiago once again and asked if I could go with him into the fields. He replied that he would be leaving to sembrar in two days and that the work would be too difficult for a foreigner. I insisted that I am becoming more Guatemalan every day, but the debate continued. Don Santiago insisted, “It is too hot.”

“I like hot weather,” I retorted.

“The food will be too spicy. You don’t like spicy food.”

“I’ll eat it.”

“You will have to wake up very early.”

“If I wake up before you leave, are you going to not let me go?” That one got him.

“We will go tomorrow,” he finally said, caving into my pressure.

I woke up before 5 the next morning. My head hurt. Momentarily dazed, I wondered why my alarm was set for so early in the morning. Then I remembered that today was the big day. I was going to sembrar. I wearily rose from my bed and went outside to go to the bathroom. Not feeling like walking the 50 meters to the decrepit latrine, I urinated into a nearby area of overgrown plants. This is one advantage of living in the jungle in a rural village. Next, I stumbled into the kitchen to commence my morning routine. Typically I meander in to find anywhere from 5 to 8 people sitting in the kitchen. The women are huddled around the fire preparing the food, and my host mother is usually sitting in a hammock breastfeeding her youngest child. Conversations stop, I smile, say good morning, mumble some pleasantries in Q’eqchi and sit down on a small wooden bench more suitable for a 5-year old child. There are only two benches that surround the one table in the kitchen.

Don Santiago enters from a room adjacent to the kitchen. He is beaming. His smile is so big that it seems to precede him, as it if it is guiding him into the room, tugging him along like a dog on a leash. He clearly did not think I would wake up early enough to join him in the fields. “We are going somewhere else to eat,” he declares with a smile. “We need to get a ride to the fields.” He then hands me a brightly colored, intricately woven messenger bag, which, he tells me, I will use to carry seeds of corn and beans.

Carrying my bag, I return to my room to lather myself with sunscreen and lace up my hiking boots. I wish that I had knee-high mud boots like the rest of the men in my community, but I have not been able to find a store that sells shoes in sizes greater than size 43. I wear size 47. Men typically laugh at me and inquire about my lack of mud boots, and then they laugh at my explanation of not being able to find boots in my size. Then, I typically tell them that I have clown feet, and gesture towards my ski-like feet. Surprisingly, most men in my town know the word for clown in “Spanish.” Therefore, this has been one of my most successful jokes. If I am feeling especially giddy, I will tell the men that my father has even bigger feet and then watch them as their heads explode while they ponder the worldly causes for such a deformity.

Don Santiago comes to my room and signals that it is time to go. We trudge out to the main road. The sun has begun to rise over the community, and the lights meshes with the canvas that is the Earth, painting a pretty picture of light reds and oranges, like a crackling fire that is about to die out or burst into flames, depending on your point of view. We walk for approximately 10 minutes down the road talking about the different crops that he harvests, and the time of year which he does so. I tell him about seasonal trends and weather patterns in the United States, and he smiles with pride when he learns that there is only enough rain and warm weather for one harvest of corn per year in New York. Santiago is a man who is extremely proud of Guatemala and all that its land has to offer. I wouldn’t call him a nationalist – his experiences hardly extend beyond his tiny town- he is more a man of the earth, a true descendant of the Mayans.

Eventually, we are able to flag down a passing pick-up truck, and we get a ride to a town a couple kilometers away. After giving the driver a few quetzals for the fare, we cross the road and climb up a hill that leads to a smattering of small wooden huts. We stop in front of one of the huts. There are a large amount of children milling in front of the house, as there always are in front of the tiny wooden huts of the poorest communities in Alta Verapaz. Poverty is crowded.

A rotund, middle-aged man, who appears to be the owner of the house, beckons to us and ushers us inside. The man’s name is Domingo, and he is Santiago’s brother. Domingo is a large, jovial man, and his stomach protrudes from the bottom of his shirt. Santiago immediately comments that Domingo is his older, fatter brother. Domingo seems to take pride in his big stature. I simply nod, agreeing that he is, indeed, quite large.

Inside the house there are 3 benches set up in the shape of a horseshoe. In between the benches is a basket full of bean-filled tamales wrapped in leaves. The men nod at me as I sit down on one of the benches. They smile, but their eyes express their astonishment that a gringo, a norteamericano, has come to sembrar with them. They greet me in Q’eqchi and are impressed when I am able to respond to their salutations. Their body language is a silent affirmation of my acceptance; the men gesture to the basket and encourage me to eat. The Q’eqchi are typically a quiet people, and this is especially true during meal times. We eat our tamales slowly and solemnly with our heads slightly bowed.