Team Guate

At 3:30 Thursday morning and by the light of the full moon as the rooster crowed a couple times, my husband and I threw on our sweaters and jeans, stumbled out into the quiet streets of El Calvario and into our car. We knew we were taking a chance by driving into La Antigua Guatemala on Viernes Santo, Good Friday, we might even have to walk home, but not knowing what to expect our car was our life raft. We were, however, determined to catch a glimpse of the Romans in their full armor and horses at the entrance to the city and retrace Jesus’ march along the Way of the Cross and through the Twelve Stations. It was Holy Friday, Black Friday, Great Friday and as we drove past Río Pensativo, with a few random shadows ducking into side streets, we had our doubts about whether we’d see even one Guatemalan upright and sober, much less dressed as a Roman. I thought about stopping and asking the next person, “¿Disculpeme, pero dónde están los romanos?” “Excuse me, but where are the Romans?” In our sleep deprivation – unlike other more knowing souls, we had only taken a 30 minute power nap – we just pushed ahead like late nights in San Francisco when we’d go searching for a rave or warehouse party in the most unlikely of urban places. We were not prepared for the full-scale production we were about to witness.

We turned left into Antigua Guatemala and the city was all ours with not a single car or bus cruising in from Guatemala City only to be funneled into cobble-stone streets and a bee-line string of cars into the heart of the crowded town. It’d been like that the entire week and so we’d become embedded on the other side of town, sequestered really, until this morning when space to drive was like fresh air. We drove north towards La Merced Church and as we approached, the cars began to pile up on the side of the south side of the streets , parked in random directions with crowds poring in from La Calle del Arco to the food stalls which had now become permanent fixtures right next to La Merced. They brimmed with churros, chuchitos, quesadillas, fried platanos, ponche, coffee, big rafts of thick smoke broken by lights that illuminated the crowds sauntering towards the entrance of the Church, the purple-caped men carrying sharp spears in one hand and a tamale in the other, the tents pitched between the stalls and the church, and the alfombras, colorful, intricate and immense.

The car pushed us ahead towards Alameda Santa Lucía, one of the main streets of La Antigua that leads you south into Ciudad Vieja and Escuintla, and on most days reminds you of a miniature version of rush hour on the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Francisco Bay Bridge if you were sharing the street with zigzagging pedestrians, stray dogs, tuk-tuks, cyclists, motorcycles, venders, looming buses and broken down cars. But today it was silence, with the crouching bodies of people, young and old, laying down their alfombras by the light of one light bulb and together creating a path that lit the entire street as far as the eye could see. We parked along this street and began our walk towards the church, staring in awe at one alfombra after the next , some long and sprawling for blocks, some depicting entire scenes of Jesus Christ, while others were laden with melons, mangos, split open papayas, egg shells, candles, fluttering butterflies, architectural buttresses, straw crosses.

My mouth agape as I stood by the First Station of the Cross where Jesus Is Condemned To Death by Pontius Pilate I heard hooves and galloping and turned towards La Merced to see the Romans on their white horses riding into town with their full armor and swords. “The Romans are here, look,” I told Brad, my husband, and we got out of the way for the dark, short Romans on their white steeds. As so it was the beginning of the procession which was scheduled to leave La Merced Church at 5 a.m. much to the anticipation of the bodies piled up with their hot coffees and banana bread by the entrance of the church. Thinking ahead, Brad took a place at the front of the gathering crowd at the first bend of the procession. I went towards the church, crawling underneath Romans, food stalls, legs, and ladders to see the beginning of the procession.

On my tip-toes, I saw the bus-long float carrying a red-robed Christ and his wooden cross surrounded by dozens of orchids and flowers hoisted on the shoulders of at least a hundred purple-clothed men. There was clouds of incense and the prayers by the priests were almost sung in rhythm. I could not make the words out, but I knew the journey well, I’d grown up with it as a Catholic. We were embarking upon The Passion of Christ—all the events and suffering of Jesus in the hours before and including his trial and execution by crucifixion. We had been preparing for it the entire duration of Lent and now we had arrived and were faced with, albeit in an allegorical sense, the suffering of one human being. I turned back to be with Brad for the First Station and to see how far we could make it along the all-day march. We were surrounded by thousands witnessing the procession and as it made its way towards Alameda Santa Lucía, we marched with it, flanked on our left by believers paying their respect, making the cross along their forehead and across their chests. Small candles were lit one by one and then the dark pierced their multitude like pearls or fireflies along the path. We all moved as one unit as the procession made it past The First and then the Second Station, and by the third station Brad sat by the curb of the road by Alameda Santa Lucía and said, “I had no idea.”

Neither did I, I thought to myself as we drove home to the blue light of dusk over the volcanoes. I remember as a child we would go to the beach during Semana Santa (my family are coastal people after all) and then when we moved to Guatemala City. There is where I remember standing next to my grandmother, surrounded by people crying as they held small candles when this looming figure of Christ passed. That figure instilled me fear and awe. It created a narrative in my mind. Standing there my grandmother taught me to make the cross with her and to remember how one person’s suffering can impact so many of us. Even today, she reminded me, we remember together. It’s a lesson that transcends Catholicism and which I’ve taken with me into my Buddhism—how we have to be mindful of how we help to reduce suffering in the world, not perpetuate it.

Additional Links:

• Viernes Santo Flickr Slideshow
• Jueves Santos Photos Slideshow
• An Easter Smackdown in Lake Atitlán
• Associated Press’ Holy Week in Guatemala Photos

I’m wearing all black tomorrow not only because I look cool in all black, but also because tomorrow is the day Jesus died, and I’m going to his funeral. If you’re anywhere in Latin America today then you know we’re right smack in the middle of Semana Santa, or Holy Week, and it’s like Christmas + Hanukkah x 10, for a whole week! Guatemala is a predominantly Catholic country and this being a major Catholic holiday, well, the stores are closed, kids are off from school and everyone’s out in the streets watching the processions with their families until it all ends on Sunday. Processions are massive parades with floats carved out of wood depicting Biblical allegories. They are dramatic, colorful, smell like a million simultaneously burning incense sticks and sound like booming off-key parade music.

To understand this holiday you need to understand the Stations of the Cross. The Stations represent the final hours of Jesus’ life. In Antigua there are little houses for each Station- like actual permanent physical structures on this one big street that leads to El Calvario church! Anyway, it’s a lot to get your head around if you’re not Catholic, I know. Lots of gringos I talk to have never even heard of the Stations. Thankfully Prensa Libre ran an awesome infographic yesterday that I’ve scanned and posted below. Just look at the pictures if you can’t read Spanish. Or for a more in-depth explanation in English, this Wiki article will get you up to speed.

My thing is, if you’re in this country during the holidays you should at least get a basic understanding of what’s going on around you. I know most gringos hate “organized religion” but according to my last scientific study most of you are at least “spiritual.” I know, Roman Catholicism isn’t as exotic as hugging Indian saint cults or finding your animal shaman while tripping on peyote, but this is deep, meaningful stuff here- why not check it out?

I’ve had to brush up on my Catholic liturgy today by calling mi abuelita and having her explain to me the significance of Domingo De Ramos or Palm Sunday. She tells me that Holy Week begins with Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion, which is really the triumph of Christ as Messiah as he rides into Jerusalem  through the ritual of the procession of the palms by the Catholics, and the announcement of the passion in a Mass narrative. Some drama happens when Christ sees all the folks selling outside the church (ah-hem, not like something like that would happen outside La Merced church in La Antigua).

People carry palms and bouquets which are blessed objects consisting of palmas y ramas de olivo o laurel. La Antigua was full of them, all shapes and sizes sitting right next to the mango on a stick saleswoman. This Sunday definitely had the twofold aspect of both the glory and suffering, not just on Christ’s face as he was marched from La Merced church and back, but on the poor clean-up crew’s face as they swept up all the alfombras trampled on by the float carriers.

We’re days away from Holy Thursday, right outside Lent, and then it’s full steam ahead into resurrection Sunday. We won’t be spending too much money on gas this week because after Wednesday the streets of LAG are filled with Semana Santa revelers!

For a Saturday the town was quiet with the silence of anticipation. Cuaresma is reaching its climax in La Antigua and sometimes a pillow fight in the middle of Parque Central is exactly what you need.

Woke up in Panama this morning.

In Tecun Uman the streets are like a Pac-Man game, sometimes they wind in impossible turns around the main square and sometimes they just end onto a dirt path and on the other side is the border. We follow the trail of cars that bleed quickly into Tecun Uman’s now paved roads that I remember so distinctly were dirt roads that would form large mounds of mud along the houses  when it rained. There is a main square that the road leads us around and on the outskirts is the SAT office, large, desolate and surrounded by men sitting at old typewriters busily pounding at rusty keys as you enter through the side. It is an inferno outside and inside it is a stuffy cave with people using their documents to fan themselves. There is only SAT person at the front desk and as if he’s been waiting for us all morning, he smiles and asks how he can help us. I take a seat at let Brad do his thing. He’s doing well, until, the new SAT guy says: “There a law that states you can’t bring the car back until 90 days from the point you exit the country.” I interject and ask him if there’s a way to get an exception made. He thinks to himself and says, “Possibly, but you would need to talk to Berta. She’s on the other side of the railroad tracks at the big SAT office.” It sounds ominous. Brad is looking defeated. He zips his black binder with all our paperwork and drags himself to the car. “Let’s go,” he says, “back home.” At that moment a tracker, a guy who’d been listening all along to our SAT conversation, offers to take us to Berta for Q100. I tell him that’s too much, Brad gets in the car. Q50 he says. Q50 and what? I ask. Q50 and I lead you to her in your car. Brad understands and says NO WAY! Q50 and you take a motorcycle, I tell him. That’s fine, follow me, then, he says.

Brad is suspicious. I tell the tracker he has 2 minutes to get a motorcycle, get on it and lead us to Berta. Within two minutes we’re following him out of Tecun Uman, past the snake line of tractor trailers waiting for inspections and to a large SAT office that sits like a mansion at the end of the dirt road. The parking lines are even painted outside the entrance of the building and inside there are two plasma screens with cable tv. While Brad talks to Berta, I talk to the car inspectors, tax collectors and everyone in the waiting room. I find out from Saul at 7943-8163 that our car is not worth much but the taxes are Q10,000 so we don’t ever have to go through this process again. It would take two hours, he tells me. I say, Saul, our car is valued at $3,700, do you think it makes sense to make more than $1,000 on it in taxes? I see your point, seño, he tells me. As I’m wheeling and dealing, Brad calls me into Berta’s office. “Please confirm what she said,” he whispers in my ear.

“We are making an exception for you,” Berta, the young thirty-something equivalent of the Talisman grim reaper from yesterday, is amused by Brad and just gives a lackluster smile when I translate what she says to Brad. “I have called the SAT person at the border and all you have to do is stay out of the country for one day. These things rarely happen, so please don’t make it a habit.” We shake hands and get out of there fast, make our way back into Tecun Uman and over the Mexico border. Next stop Tapachula, oh, lovely Tapachula with a city grid, well-paved wide roads, trash cans on street corners and women who wear shorts, here we come. One hour later we are sitting by a pool in Casa Mexicana and wondering where it all went wrong.

The road to Tecun Uman and El Carmen is lined by green forest, sloping pastures with grazing cows and purple lilacs falling gently on the pocket-marked pavement ridden with potholes and speeding tractor trailers headed to Mexico. Cars create their own third lane as they pass other cars and the speed bumps are sudden and unmarked, as random as the towns that have formed facing the road, the CA-2 that leads towards the border. People have formed entire lives facing this street – vendors extend their arms to sell by the speed bumps, women in short skirts holding small handbags stand demurely by the side of the road and small children and thin dogs quickly run across before the next passing car.

I haven’t been on this road since we were headed North, towards Juarez, to illegally cross the Mexican border with the United States when I was six years old. The road was an endless stretch of black ocean that swallowed the lights from the Pullman we rode on. I held mi mama’s hand tighter and slowly we made our way up and up, jumping on the next bus, truck, car, anything that came our way. We were a long way from home and my mother thought she had taken me out of this place for good, right before the height of the massacres in 1983.

Twenty-six years later, I’m laying down new tracks, nuevas pistas, new memories to be reminisced as they happen on our most mundane task of renewing our visas and our car permit, every 90 days, and one can’t even begin to imagine what Migracion or the SAT (the Guatemalan version of the DMV) will come up with to make our crossing over to Mexico a web of  intricate details that must be negotiated with the exact words, tone and deference, not laws, but attitude.

The odds are for us because we have two borders, Tecun Uman and Talisman at El Carmen, to negotiate the conditions of renewing our visas and car permits should we strike out on the first border. We have a big black folder read with: copies of our title, our passports, our car registration, our previous two car permits, our licenses, official letters from the Embassy stating the purpose for my visit to Guatemala, Brad’s got his best gringo smile on and I’m ready to listen and ask less questions. Easy enough, since all our paperwork is completely legit and official. The only sticking points are:

(1) The car permit needs to be renewed at a border that is not the Central American States. Meaning: Mexico, Belize, Costa Rica. However, when we drove to Aguas Calientes in December, the border with Honduras right past Esquipulas, we had no problems renewing our permit. We’re at the Mexican border so we have this requirement covered.

(2) Likewise with the passport Visas.The Visas need to be renewed at a border that is not the Central American States. There is a fine incurred  if you return earlier than the 72 hours. There is also a fine incurred if you are only one day before your Visa expires because it takes two days to process, so by the time your Visa processes you will be over your expiration date, so you have to pay the $50 to renew. We’re good on this one because everything expires on March 22 for us and so we’re ahead of the game. So we think.

(3) We are supposed to take the car out of the country for 72 hours, have the Guatemalan permit cancelled before we enter the new country and then a new permit will be issued when we return.  The 72 hours is negotiable based on the official that is at the SAT and I have yet to get a clear reply about what the law actually states from any of the SAT folks I have spoken to at the border. So this gray zone is the one we’re most worried about.

We opt for El Carmen because Tecun Uman is sketch and has a reputation. We’ve also had friends recommend it us. What does mi mama have to say about it? “Las dos fronteras no sirven.”  Both borders are no good. So we push our luck and try to be patient with the 30 KM of endless tumulos, speed bumps, that make our drive to El Carmen more like an hour and a half. As we approach El Carmen it’s a descent down into the town and then suddenly it’s the market, the zizagging bodies between cars, black smoke, dust, honking from trucks, men flashing large wads of money at your car window, raw sausages dangling from street carts, and then the pale green of the SAT and immigration building. We roll on by SAT because there’s no sign and straight to immigration to get our passports stamped. The immigration office is curious about this Guatemalan with a US passport and this gringo from St. Louis with a car with California plates going into Mexico for the day just to eat huaraches and renew their Visa and permits. They smile and send us back to SAT. We take a breath when we’re sent back and try to not roll over any pedestrians, dogs or children as we drive back up the hill.

We pull up to the SAT office and put our hazards on. It can’t possibly take that long. Inside it beings. The first SAT person ask for our permits, our passports, how long we’ve lived here, for how much longer, what is our employment and when are we returning. I tell him we’re working in Guatemala, I have a fellowship and we are here at least until October 2010. He asks to see the letter that details my employment and fellowship. I show it to him. He reads it and nods as he reads it. Then he says:

“You do know that there’s a law that states that once you take your car out of Guatemala and cancel the permit, that you can’t bring it back in for another 90 days?” No, I tell him. I know there’s a law that states we need to keep it out of the country for 72 hours before returning the car into the country. “No,” he says adamantly, “it’s 90 days.”

That’s a bit problematic I tell him because I have to be back in La Antigua by Sunday night  in order to catch a plane on Monday. “You’ll have to do that without your car,” he tells us flatly.

“It’s interesting,” I tell him, “because we need our car to be able to do our work. What do we need to do to resolve this situation? We understand there may be additional costs and inconvenience fees. We’re really just trying to do the simple thing of renewing our car permit and getting back to our home to do our work.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I do not have the authority to let you do that.” Then who does? I ask. He asks me to wait a moment and goes back into some hidden office to speak to his boss. He returns 15 minutes later. “My boss says he does not have the time to speak to you.” He restates the situation and the impossibility of resolving the situation. I ask him to kindly show me a copy of the law he is referring to, he scrambles to find it and is not successful. I am getting flustered.

“Since you don’t have the authority to approve our request for an exception we’re really just wasting each other’s time here,  you’re the messenger,” I try to say calmly. “With all due respect, can you please persuade your boss to speak to us? We’ve travelled a long way and it won’t take long for us to speak about our situation with him.” He looks me straight in the eye, not a single emotion behind it. He lowers his head, “Va, I will try again.” He goes back and disappears for another 15 minutes. This time he opens the bullet-proof door to the inside of the SAT office and says, “My boss will see you now.”

I follow him with Brad and then I see his boss, short, Soprano-like, with a suit and tie, sweating and not happy to see me at all.

“I am a very busy man, ma’am, and I just kicked out two very important people out of my office in order to speak to you. What exactly do you want?”

“Good morning, sir,” I say to him, “I appreciate you taking the time to speak to us. Our situation is very simple. I have a fellowship to work here, I’m a US citizen although I’m from Guatemala, my husband is also from the US and we need our car to do our work. We cannot afford to not have our car for 90 days. It will affect our ability to work. We ask for an exception because it’s also been very confusing – all the other borders we’ve been to we’ve been informed it’s 72 hours to keep the car out of Guatemala.So have other people we’ve know to renew their car permits. We’re both educated, law-abiding folks and it’s impossible to figure out your SAT laws and untangle the mess of contradictory information.”

“You say you’re licensiada with a Master’s, where exactly did you get your Master’s from?” I tell him UC Berkeley. “Do you have the diploma to prove that? He asks. I tell him that in fact, yes, I do. I have it just in case I meet inquiring minds like his. So I pull out my Bachelor’s and Master’s degree original copies. He reads both of them, even though one of them is in Latin. He doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a Master’s as well from Guatemala and it’s the equivalent of yours.” I’m confused, I tell him, what does this have to do with our car permit?

“Well,” he says, “it has to do with your car permit because I wanted you to know that even though you come in here with your certificates, US passports, letters and whatever else you brought, you are not above the law and the laws says 90 days.” Where and which law, please show me, I ask him, my voice pitch is rising and I don’t like it. He shows me the “Anexo de la Resolucion No.223-2008 [COMIECO-XLIX], Código Aduanero Uniforme CentroAmericano – CAUCA and RECAUCA.” The part that concerns us most is most is Articulo 442 which states “No podrá otogarse una nueva autorización de importación temporal de un vehiculo hasta que transcurra un plazo de tres meses desde su salida del territorio sin que se haya operado la suspensión del plazo o de su depósito bajo control aduanero.”

Yep, three months. He’s right. And we had no clue about this law. I ask him if he can kindly make me a copy so I can use it for informing others. “Gladly,” he says and calls in the original person we spoke to to make copies. “For this reason I cannot grant you an exception. You are not above the law. Now if you can leave my office, I have other important business to attend to.” The messenger whispers to me, “It did not go well?” No, I tell him, perhaps the heat is getting to us all. He gives me the copy of the law and I thank him for his patience.

When we step out to the where our car is parked with its hazards still blinking after an hour of being in there, Brad and I decide that it’s time for Plan B. So we park the car, walk across the border to the Mexico side and renew our permits. Not a huarache or taco stand in sight, we head back, get in the car and make the hour and a half drive back to Retalhuleu in the dark. It feels like a death march and in our surrender drive we decide tomorrow we need to do this again, but this time, it’ll be Tecun Uman – seedy, chaotic and everything a border town should be.

We’re talking serious carbon credits.

Jesucristo y Dios were interchangeable in my family where the Old Testament and the New Testament only made a difference when whatever you did was grave enough to merit the old time religion that justified the punishment. Semana Santa did, however, always remind us that there was a difference and the 40 days leading up to the death of Jesucristo were in many ways singular opportunities to interweave the sacred into the mundane in a much more intentional way. You gave something up, you contemplated your mistakes, you waited in long lines to confess, you were nicer to your mom,  you prayed everyday, you thanked the Pope (¿Porque El Papa abuelita?) and you tried not to talk back because at the end of the day all these things are connected, through this bridge, this person, a historical figure, a saint, a social outlier, that joined you to something outside your small world, smaller worries, and small self capable of more – at the very least a procession or two.

Thus did Cuaresma and Lent kick-off in La Antigua with a Friday bringing out of the Christ from La Catedral:

Then the meticulous and intricate carpetas or rugs made out of flowers, palms, fruit, vegetables by people on Sunday morning – laid out on the dull gray road we normally don’t think twice about laying down rubber as we speed by. Here’s my favorite one:

Although we couldn’t make it home by car to get our hiking gear for our hike up Vulcan Pacaya that afternoon, we did have a primo view of the culminating procession:

I grew up with a fear of Guatemala City as this monolith of chaos that swallowed up people in the same way that La Siguanaba inhaled men’s souls late at night when they pranced back through the fincas to their wives from their illicit love affairs. Somehow she also took niños malcriados, but I never figured out the logical leap there. According to my great-grandmother Trinidad  my great-grandfather lost his mind (and thus had his brain hemorrhage) this way when he saw La Siguanaba brushing her hair by the Río Motawa, sitting on a rock facing the river. He touched her and like a scene from “The Shining” he lost his mind and died a couple of weeks later.  An entire day in Guatemala City driving from Zone 1 to 4 to 10 back to 11 felt like a journey into heart of darkness, but instead I found the B-Boys of Zone 1:

I had piled on meetings and presentation after presentation and I passed the B-Boys Cafe on the way to Cafe Leon where I was to meet an editor from a wire service to talk about his interest in helping with HablaGuate. Cafe Leon was a lovely surprise, not just because it had parking right next to it, but also because it was just a lovely spot to sit, read, drink a coffee and scurry away from the madding crowd.

Two hours quickly passed and then, with our friend Nathan in tow who had never been to Guatemala City, we walked over to the young people at Luciernaga, the Cultural Center for Audiovisual Resources, to do a quick presentation about HablaGuate to see if they were interested in participating and getting some training. While I didn’t take any pictures what continually amazes me about Guatemala City and especially Zone 1 is the jewel inside these ugly shells for buildings. Luciernaga is a lovely tall Victorian that is a cafe, cultural center, artist space, live, and co-working space that provides a safe space for many of the 13-25 years old who come here on a daily basis from less inhospitable zones.

An hour later as the sun begins to descend and drop an extra layer of urgency and grime onto Zone 1, we dash out hoping to beat the rush hour towards Zone 10, land of 5-hour star hotels, night life and just expendable wealth, to meet the GuateAmala youth and their weekly “innovation committee.” GuateAmala is interesting because they work on campaigns that create positive messages and micro-actions about Guatemala City. On this particular night they are creating radio and video spots to combat road rage. It’s an interesting choice for a campaign and I can see how it might be a bit difficult for the Zone 1 youth to identify with the same causes as the Zone 10 priorities.

At 8 PM, Nathan is looking a bit pale and is a bit giddy when he tries to string English together, so I think it’s time to punctuate the evening with a visit to HiperPaiz.  We’re swimming downstream in traffic and then we arrive and Nathan says he just landed on a different planet. I tell him we have a little bit of everything in Guate. For a San Franciscan, this is an anthropological tour for him into mall land and he fares well, not a single comment about globalization or trans-nationalism, that is, until we get to the the apples. “These apples are from Washington! Did you see these, they’re from Washington state!” Indignant does not begin to encompass the expression on his face. I offered, “These peaches are from California, does that make you feel better?” Nathan shook his head while walking up and down the next two aisles of food from the US.  “I didn’t come to Guatemala to eat U.S. food!” He yelled. “But we don’t think twice about bananas or coffee from Guatemala, mangos from Mexico, papayas from the Caribbean.” I said. Nathan yelled back: “But I do!” over the rows of pineapple mohawks. “So does that mean you’re only eating cereal at our house? I asked as he stormed off muttering, “I’ll get the milk.”

At 10 PM we are home and I realize that slowly, slowly Guatemala City is less like La Siguanaba and more like any city you learn to become literate in, to navigate like an insider and to find those human spaces that make it home to some 4 million Guatemalans.

Sipacate is we’re headed today for Valentine’s Day. If it’s near as fun as this map from Sipacate.com then we’re golden. More on this from the road crew.

Friday was the second morning in a row that I beat the roosters to heralding morning. At 4 AM I was parked outside La Fabrica gym in La Antigua reading my Tweets, NY Times and Prensa Libre on my phone, just biding the time until 5 AM determined my trust in humanity. It was a pivotal point and it would determine the loss of my innocence and my sense that when presented with an odd piece of technology to sell, such as a Kindle, people would do the right thing and turn it in to its rightful owner.

But how did I get here in such a desperate state? The night before, around 8 PM, we had gone to work out in my somnambulating state after having slept four hours that afternoon and gone straight to the gym, my Kindle and new New Yorker in hand. That I actually planned to do my CIRMA reading on the theory behind the formation of state did not occur to me, but the Kindle was my trusty sidekick with around 50 books of comfort. I knocked out the Precor machine in 45 minutes and then jumped off and headed home relieved of my workout duties. At 11 PM, I realized while talking to mi mama that my Kindle and I were separated by distance, time and memory and so I rushed out in my pajamas with Brad in tow to my fateful realization: that partings do create sorrow.

The large wooden doors to the Kindle kingdom were closed when we arrived and so  there were 6 hours before they opened again. “Stoopid, stoopid, stoopid,” I kept chanting. My head dropped below the steering wheel and dejected I eventually put myself into bed, to a feverish sleep that roused me at 3:30 AM.

At 4 AM reprieve was near as I counted my minutes in Twitterfuls and jumped in the car with my bathrobe still on.

4:01: “I am waiting outside La Fabrica hoping my Kindle was turned in.” A friend Tweets back: “Are you a morning person now?” I settle in for the wait with my blanket around me. I am the mechanical owl from “Clash of the Titans” scanning the night terrain.

4:11: “It’s hard to believe people will actually work out this early.” I Tweet and shudder.

4:32. The streets are desolate and the roosters have started to echo down the alleys. Two stray dogs drag themselves down the street.

4:40. “You have to just let go of the outcome and that whether or not your Kindle is there, you’ll be okay with it,” my internalized Buddhist teacher reminded me.

4:42. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m really meant for an Ipad, I reasoned.

4:43 It’s a gift to the world really and imagine how many meals a Kindle sold in Guatemala City could bring in? Can I deduct it as a business expense or under donation?

4:47. Headline from a Tweet: “Children are reading and doing their homework on buses with Kindles and new wifi.”

4:48. Sigh.

4:50. A car passes and still no sign of the doors opening to grace.

4:58. Two motorcycles, a bicycle, a car and two pedestrians with gym bags show up all at once. The gym employee unlocks the door and drops his mouth when he sees me. “¿Y este milagro?” “And this miracle.”  I tell him the sob story. He nods, picks up the paper from the doorstep and the entire morning crew pours in like salmon downstream. I run to the machine where I worked out last night and the Kindle is gone. I have chewed my nail to the knob at this point, I look around lost in freefall. The gym dude puts away his things patiently and heads to the office. “What does it look like?” He shuffles things around the desk. I can’t form words. I follow him like a lost dog. Out of the corner of my eye, I’ve seen it, a mother dinosaur looking for her egg, I squawk: “It’s right there!” I say feigning calm and keep myself from running into his office.

He brings it back slowly and each step is a heartbeat. He puts it in my hand and suddenly I can hear the morning bells from the nearby Francisco Church tolling. I run back in my car jumping for joy and my final Tweet.

5:11: “Thank you thank you! I am in disbelief that people turned in my kindle and workout at 5 am.”

I rode the back of a big red truck with Massachusetts plates all the way from Guatemala City to La Antigua with a bunch of so called pirate radio folks. It was really the best view in town and it punctuated the end of a long morning that started at 4 AM to make it in time to Guatemala City for a press conference on community radio. The bill being discussed is called “The Law of the Community Radio Number 4087” which if passed would guarantee the use of at least one FM frequency for community radio in each of Guatemala’s 333 municipalities. Multiple towns could use the same frequency because of their limited broadcast range and one-third of all FM frequencies would be added to a new reserve as they become available.

To experiment with live coverage (and keeping my multi-tasking neurons firing) I live streamed the press conference using Ustream.Tv and also CoverItLive and you can see the results here. One hundred and twenty people showed up, reporters, community members to listen to Frank La Rue (Relator de libertad de expresion de la ONU), Rigoberta Menchu (Premio Nobel de la Paz 1992), Marvin Orellana (Ponente de Ley de Radios Comunitarias No. 4087), and Rodolfo Castanon (Miembro de Comision de Pueblos Indigenas del Congreso) speak on the subject. It was a very encouraging press conference not only because the only time that many reporters show up to a press conference in the US is when the president is in town, but because the theme that continued to come up was the need to have open and legal spaces for free expression to happen and to create plurality.

“In Latin America we prioritize and privilege commercial information. What is important about freedom of expression is pluralism and diversity. That’s what we must come to go beyond the monopoly,” said Menchu.  Other memorable quotes from Menchu included:  “All media has an obligation to the right of citizenship. What is not in law, is not illegal because it is not a law and does not exist or is not not allowed.” What has stuck with me since I’ve started covering this story is the sound that dozens of radio reporters make in one room as they broadcast into a cellphone in their native languages. It’s the sound of information breaking sound barriers.

And I wouldn’t be mad if I ended up at one of these sweet hand-painted permanent addresses. Check out some photographs I took in the San Pedro cemetery.

I grew up with a hammock in Chiquimula – a hammock that served as a respite from the scorching hot afternoons where the best survival tactic was to find a dark corner and just stay still until evening arrived. While it doesn’t get nearly as hot in La Antigua, we do find the same comfort and excuse for staying still in our new hammock.

Like a new pair of shoes I walked out of the store with (yes after having paid), I didn’t even wait ten minutes after stumbling upon Craigslist Guatemala to put up my first post in both the Writing and Community sections. I knew these sections well and felt right at home, but I did wonder why the hub for CL Guate wasn’t listed under the countries section? I found it on  CL’s main page and it looks like the first entry I can find goes back to Oct. 2009.  Interesting, I will exploring this, but suffice it to say that we do have a CL here and it’s like we’re on the community map that connects us all on CL.

I swear to you, this is the view out our rooftop. No Photoshopping involved:

That was the last of them. We put the last crew of family members on the plane and headed back to the fragmented reality of our home – intermittent internet service, static-filled linea fija, useless Vonage without an IP address, dead hard drives, bad power adapters, beeping APCs and the general mayhem of when machines talk to one another and decide to go on strike against their cruel tormentors that give them no rest. Why this onslaught of technological rebellion? What was the universe telling us that we just weren’t listening to? I thought of the visit we paid to Maximón in Santiago, Atitlan this weekend and wondered if I could take my technology troubles to him like the couple in this video who asked the shaman to intercede on their behalf and talk to the Maximón about being evicted from their home:

We were led to him by two Tuk Tuk drivers who zipped us to the other side of the island, passing Parque de Paz, the devastation of Hurricane Stan, and onward to a private home with thatched roofs, dirt floors, and a family eating their lunch by the large pot boiling over the wooden fire. A thick plume of incense billowed from the entrance to a dark cabin where three people kneeled before the austere wooden figure of Maximón clad in silk ties covering his entire wooden body and smoking a large cigar that the two attendants – a cigar man who was a glorified ashtray holder and a liquor bearer –both watched as the shaman issued his plea in the Tz’utujil language. Our Tuk Tuk drivers translated as I sat in the corner and took the video (I had paid Q10 for one photo, but there was no set price for video, so they looked confused when I pulled out my camera).

The family was in trouble, I was informed, they were getting evicted and only the Maximón, the Maya god who has the powers that only the believer can entrust to him in the area the believer needs the most help in. The plea continued, the incense filled the entire room, the couples’ child shrieked and then a bottle of Pepsi was passed around for all to drink.The cigar holder man and the alcohol holder both drank and smoked. I could buy Maximón a drink, the Tuk Tuk friend told me. It would be my offering to him. Or we could sit next to him on either side of the chair and that was permitted while the shaman spoke. We could see things from the Maximón’s perspective. I sat quietly in the room and took pictures. “Does Maximón sleep?” I asked our guides. They looked annoyed. “Of course he sleeps. Every night we take him upstairs and at 5 AM he is brought down to hear people’s problems.” For how long, I wondered? “Until, next year when the Maximón is moved back to the city.” So he’s a traveling god? “Yes, he goes to where people need him.” That makes a lot of sense I told my Tuk Tuk friend. I thought perhaps my technology problems weren’t even worth mentioning to him, he probably had so many other things to worry about.