I stare out the window, maybe a little bit high on diesel fumes, of an old American schoolbus that moves to the beat of reggaeton. Guatemala is an amazing and strange intersection between traditional culture and modernity, I watch a woman board the bus carrying a basket on her head with a cellphone against her ear. In Xecam, I hop out the back door, something that still makes me giddy after years of prohibition, and begin hiking my way upwards towards Nueva Xetinimit. This trail has been used since time immemorial to traverse the highlands, it was hewn by the feet of thousands of Quiche villagers, the feet of guerillas during the civil warand the well shod feet of those who want to see a Guatemala through from a different perspective. The long dry season is nearing its end, dust billows out from under my feet with each step. I step to the side of the trail into the pines as mules pass, straining under loads of firewood that arc over their backs. Men hurry alongside with machete in hand, we smile and greet one another with a long drawn out Buenos deeeeas that I learned to mimic after spending months crisscrossing the altiplano as a guide.
The trail opens up into fallow fields furrowed with the already sown with maize that awaits the rain. A few moribund pines dot the landscape, the sheetmetal roofs of Nuevo Xetinimit shimmer in the distance. I am going to write about this experience, I walk thinking about how to capture this place, I feel a love for Guatemala that is difficult to express. I greet a family working in their milpa and gaze out over the fields blotched with cloud shadows. A love this… grrrr….FUCK! I feel something clamp down on my ankle and instinctively break it loose and drive it directly into the cloud of fur and dust whirling around my feet. I shout obscenities and impotently fill the air with a cloud of dust as I pick up and release a fistful of dust at the retreating dreadlocked mongrel. The family shouts as a friendly gesture, but we quickly break out into laughter after a moment. No rabies..no rabies..The only casualty is my sock.
I walk into Nuevo Xetinimit and approach two women sitting alongside a deep, dusty scar that cuts through the overgrazed and overworked plain. I greet them in one of the few Quiche words that I know, saqui’rik. I ask them how they are doing and they respond in Quiche accompanied with a hand gesture that says someone is going to come who speaks Spanish.
The farmers here, as in much of the highlands, scratch out an existence by planting corn, beans and potatoes in marginal soils on steep mountainsides. They hand plant a traditional milpa with beans and corn, harvest firewood for cooking and live in simple adobe or block homes. They lead a precarious existence; it is a harsh landscape where there is either too much water or not enough. In the end of October 1998, Hurricane Mitch dropped a years worth of rain that fell nearly horizontal with high winds. The cornfields that provide the year’s sustenance were destroyed by the wind and water. Above Xetinimit the deforested landscape and sloped fields gave way, unleashing a torrent of rock and mud that left dozens of houses destroyed and two lives lost. Central America was left reeling.
Most of the villagers left to try again elsewhere and Nueva Xetinimit was born. Multiple families shared small houses for years as they tried to get back on their feet, there was nowhere else to go. Several children from this area have have passed through a school for children who would not otherwise have access to education called Escuela de la Calle. Escuela de la Calle and Hogar Abierto are the primary projects that the funds generated by Quetzaltrekkers serve to fund. Quetzaltrekkers has maintains close relationships with many of the communities that we hike through: in Nueva Xetinimit alone guides have joined forces to build a bridge, donate bicycles and provide school supplies.
|Manuel grinning in the tunnel.|
What am I doing here? The village has spent that past 240 days working collectively to carve tunnels into the hillside in search of potable water. A project they undertook on faith, someone had an intuition that they would find water here. They dug two tunnels between 5-10 meters in length into the hillside, each one 1.5m high by 1m wide, before they found two trickling veins of ground water. Manuel, our liason with the committee tasked with building the project hands a candle out to me and points towards the tunnel. It feels like an affront to my manliness, I grab the dainty candle and plod my way through the running water, crouching as I move further into the darkness and feel a rising panic as I think about the mass of earth towering over my head. Here, right now? In this tunnel? What if I died? They spent months in this tunnel, it is fine. But everything is fine until it isn’t fine anymore! I am too large! I feel like Alice. I try and balance myself against the ceiling and walls, but worry that this will only weaken the structure. I look and see Manuel’s grin lit by his cellphone at the end of the tunnel. He points to the water as it emerges from nowhere. I awkwardly turn around, quickly moving towards the light. Always move towards the light.
The guides from Quetzaltrekkers have agreed to provide the necessary materials to fortify the water source and carry water to the lavadera below. The lavadera is a washing station that currently sits almost empty, but will serve as a source of water for household consumption for several dozen families who currently walk several hundred meters to retrieve water. I am here to help organize the project.
Six women are clustered around the washing station as I approach, soaping, rubbing and rinsing the days wash. I am often cynical about aid from a theoretical perspective, critical about dependency and the inability of aid to achieve lasting results, yet I look on and imagine clear, potable water pouring out of a pipe and the effect that it will have on these women’s lives; it is beautiful.
I run back down to Xecam with a rock in each fist, ready for the cantankerous cur that never appears.
On a crisp and clear Xela morning I walk out the door of Casa Argentina with Santi to find our friend Victor leaning against his pickup truck with a new dapper mustache above an unsmiling mouth and mirrored shades. He says nothing as we approach, until I stick my hand out.
‘Les gusta el new look?’ He bursts forth and starts cracking up.
We pile into the back of his pickup truck and head out to Tubofort. I think about the name Tubofort on the ride there, going back and forth: pipes are definitely sold there, but it isn’t a fort. Fort is also not a word in Spanish. I ultimately decide that the name is great: succinct, yet it has some flair. We wrangle and rope three dozen 6 meter PVC tubes into the back of the truck I sit in the back and watch Xela fade away as we head up to…Alaska?... the strangely named highpoint on the entirety of the Pan-American highway.
|Dust devil sweeps across the landscape as Victor takes a leak.|
Manuel stands on the roadside grinning as we approach. He piles in and we drive into Nueva Santa Catarina Ixtahuacan to buy the rest of the materials. There is also a Santa Catarina Ixtahuacan where most of the locals here used to live they had the chance to change the name and instead kept it and added three more syllables.
We arrive in Santa Caterina (the town will be referred to by this name to avoid adding several extra pages) only to be informed from the woman at the hardware store that the estimate she previously gave us was wrong: someone from the city called yesterday and the global price for steel rebar went up. Her gilded teeth wink at me as she explains the unfortunate position in which we find ourselves.
|Santi with continued excessive tortilla consumption|
We arrange for another pickup and a truck to carry materials. We load them down with cement, blocks and rebar before caravanning along dirt roads towards the project. Through the cloud of dust I look out on the volcanoes around Guatemala City and Lago de Atitlan stacked in the distance, clouds gently rising on their flanks. I only catch glimpses through pines as they blur past. I spend half of the time airborne while trying to hold together the rebar bundles that are coming undone without pinching or crushing my hand. Classic Guatemala.
I once read about a study by Geert Hofstede on the cultural dimensions of different nations around the world, where Guatemala ranked as the least individualistic country with a mere 6 points relative to the most individualistic country, the United States, with a score of 91 points. This can conversely be interpreted to reflect the degree of cooperation, or collectivist ethic, within a society. I feel this when I am here, it seems to permeate society and I think it may be what keeps bringing me back.
We arrive with the materials in Nueva Xetinimit and dozens of villagers hop to their feet, ranging from old women to young men with gelled hair. Blocks are stacked on backs, bags of cement are passed from person to person, rebar is carried in pairs, bundles of tubes are snaked up the hillside. Thousands of pounds of materials are unloaded in just a few minutes. The trucks leave and then I begin the descent to Xecam on foot with Santi.
I am out working on other projects for a couple of weeks; the only news that I hear from the project is that it was short two sections of PVC pipe, which Santi carried up from Xecam on his back.
I arrive slightly before Amir and Santi on morning for the inauguration; old men and women in traditional dress, teenagers in second hand clothes from the United States and little kids wearing a mix between the two lie around in the grass as I approach. We all sit admiring the project with mugs of atole de maiz in our hands. Everyone has come together and I marvel at the outcome. Manuel steps forth to express his gratitude for our collaboration on the project. One woman stands up and says the following, which Manuel translates to Spanish and I transcribe roughly:
‘Aqui tenemos la voluntad y estamos bien organizados. Terminamos con el proyecto en pocos días, pero no se pudiera hacerlo sin la ayuda de ustedes. Gracias a dios que hay personas con corazones como los que tienen ustedes.’ ‘Here we have the will and are well organized. We finished the project in just a few days, but it couldn’t have been done without your help. Thank god there are people like you with hearts like those that you have.’
Another woman steps forth and hands me a hand knitted sign thanking the organization to hang in the office. I also receive a diploma to add to my ego wall, once I have a wall that I can call my own and can afford to have it framed. We walk the length of the project and I see the sight I imagined weeks before: clear water gushing forth into the full lavadera. A few women look up and smile they knead their clothing against the washboards already down from just a decade of use.
Guatemala is incredibly rich in a way that is vastly different than the United States, it has taught me much about life. I want to give back and support what I see as right in the world. Projects like this and the myriad of NGO’s operating in Guatemala, like Quetzaltrekkers, demonstrate a beautiful side of humanity.
It is about coming together and working towards a better future one step at a time. Each step moves more than just a foot. – Alex Jahp. Write that down.