Tuesday May 15: Learning

My past week in Xela has been a flurry of Spanish cramming, background research, reading, and chilling in this amazing mountain city. I read a fabulous satire of Guatemalan traveler blogs describing the carbon-copy nature of so many—detailing intense volcano climbs, wonderful homestay families, and enlightening language experiences with great new friends—all along peppering entries with Spanish vocabulary. Though this could perhaps indeed describe my week of classes, I shall resist the temptation to join the blogging hordes and try to offer a more colorful portrayal of my pleasant week.

First a bit of background to where I am: I had envisioned Xela as a small town, but in reality the city is one of Guatmeala’s most important cities—the hub of business, government, and transportation in the Western Highlands. In 1820 the region even tried to secede from Guatemala; the movement was short-lived and the city never really recovered from a massive 1902 earthquake and a huge eruption of a new volcano that successfully destroyed many of the surrounding coffee plantations. Nonetheless, the city still is the center of the Western region of the country, with a vibrant European-like town square surrounded by majestic buildings, shopping arcades, and now, the ever-ubiquitous McDonald's. Though the winding cobblestone streets of Zone 1 do lend a feeling of bygone centuries, the rest of the city is a frenetic mass of business and industry, with two large breweries, a major university, and a spanking-new shopping mall.

“Intense” is really the only appropriate adjective to describe the Spanish learning experience. The classes are five hours a day of one-on-one tutoring through conversation, reading, writing, and lots of grammar. I’ve really been able to put together a lot of murky rules and conjugations into something somewhat cohesive, and for the first time, Spanish classes are really fun, filled with passionate conversations, debates, and even the occasional teasing (my teacher continues to tease that if I’m going to insult her, I should at least use proper grammar—she’s got me there!)

My teacher is a fabulously spunky young woman full of political opinions. We’ve had a chance to talk about the US and Guatemala’s upcoming elections, wars, history, and the divides and struggles in both countries. One interesting debate has involved which country has more internal racism. Guatemala has Central America’s highest concentration of indigenous Mayan peoples, and during colonialism the social structure was divided into hierarchies of indigenous, mixed-blood (“Mestizo,” or more commonly “Ladino”), and foreign colonist categories. Especially in rural areas, economic inequities and vastly different access to social services continue to divide society. My teacher insists that Guatemala is more progressive in fighting racism than the United States, but much of her opinions are based on viewings of Michael Moore documentaries, so though I readily agreed with much of her analysis of US shortcomings, I tried to point out that there were other, perhaps slightly more balanced social analyses of our government and its problems.

We spent a lot of time talking about the problem of “machismo” in Latin American countries and how the entrenched culture has undermined much of the struggles for female equality. She bristled at being labeled a feminist though, and even harbored some disdain—I loved her reply and I know some friends at school would appreciate this: Being a feminist is just the opposite of being machismo and it would be just as bad. Her goal was to deconstruct stereotypes, but she certainly didn’t want women getting any special treatment. However, as she herself admitted, she is far more assertive than even many women her age, who continue to insist that women should not try to push beyond traditional gender roles.

I stayed with a very “typical” middle-class family; the father worked in a small construction tools and materials store the mother was a homemaker who spent most of her days cooking, washing clothes by hand, and keeping the house spotless. Grandmother, an adorable old woman with a colorful ball dangling from each of her braids, helped with all the work at home, while the two boys were university students, studying engineering and medical school, but living at home (as almost all university students do). The rooms of the house were constructed on two levels around a courtyard—the rooms were attached but not connected and were all entered separately from the outside. Upstairs the family was working to add on a room at a time, with an old man slowly working on the construction project.

The best descriptor for family life would be down-to-earth. Life seemed pretty straightforward; the kids always seemed to be studying. I arrived at the beginning of three weeks of exams for both of them. The younger son attending the public medical school told me how more than ninety percent of his class would not finish the decade of classes and training, and this first year served as the largest weed-out. Dad worked hard and came home for lunch and dinner, but on Mother’s Day when he produced two tickets for a fancy dinner and concert, the mother just beamed and immediately began to detail everything she had to do to get ready for the big night. The next morning she told me breathlessly how she had danced until 1:30 in the morning!

On my first weekend the language school offered a trip up Volcán Chicabal, one of the many volcanoes ringing the region. Set in the volcano’s cone was a crystal lagoon—a sacred site for Mayan worshipers. We were able to stand at the top of the crater and look down at the lagoon and then across the valley at a smoking volcano that erupts with bits of smoke and ash several times a day, and then descending the precipitous steps right to the lakeshore, we found ourselves in the midst of a Mayan religious ceremony. The children were especially excited to see gringos; we had had our cameras out to photograph the lagoon and they were captivated. A few brave youngsters asked us to take their pictures while the rest cowered in fear nearby—the best picture from the encounter is a snapshot of all the children gathered around me showing them a picture.

Today featured my attempt at salsa dancing—generally a disaster. For all my improvements in conversation, my feet and brain still don’t coordinate particularly well. When I danced with my absolutely gorgeous instructor, she guided me nicely and I even sort of looked like I knew what I was doing, twirling her away. However, when I tried to dance with my gringa partner, we pretty much fell apart. I vowed that next time I am enrolling in classes, I will pick up some serious dance sessions to go with my language learning.

All-in-all, the week has been thoroughly enjoyable. The other language students are a great, diverse mix: our usual nightly contingent is drawn from a former Air Force linguist from Alabama, a Michigan sophomore, a couple formerly from Wisconsin now moving here from Puerto Rico, a cute Australian girl, and a jolly Dutch guy, and we’ve had a great time exploring the bars and cafes all over. I’ve gotten to run and kill my lungs with the elevation and read lots about Guatemalan history and politics. I’ve also started my research with visits to a weaving cooperative and a couple of area NGOs. I’ll write a bit about what I’ve read and learned, and soon I can add my own observations from the field.