Apparently they filmed Jurassic Park here...

It wasn't until we walked into the small Caribe Tours bus station in Sosua that we decided exactly where we were off to. After leaving Cabarete, and Anne Grethe and Obdulio, early that morning, we had narrowed our destinations down to Santo Domingo or Jarabacoa. Our guidebook raved about the natural beauty of Jarabacoa, which is in an interior region referred to as the Dominican Alps. Honestly, they're spot on. I couldn't tell if I was in Switzerland, Italy, Ireland, Guatemala or the DR. The landscape was absolutely stunning, for both it's beauty and it's seemingly random placement.

After a couple connections, and a nice snooze in the Caribe Tours bus, we lugged our bags off the coach and hopped a pick up cab for the only hotel worth staying in; Brisas Del Yaque. As I've mentioned before, Beth and I prize AC and cable above all, and were thrilled Brisas had both. At this point, we were roughly five weeks into the trip, and both our minds and bodies were beginning to show a bit of wear. It often occurred to me on the trip that maybe the human body is not meant to live this way, because transience didn't seem to agree with me. Seeing the world as a vagabond explorer is thrilling and spontaneous in nature, but also tiresome and a bit exhausting, and hell on the digestive system. No matter how much fun I was having, I craved consistency, quiet and stillness. I missed my kitchen, my room, the rest of my wardrobe, and simply the sense of knowing where I was and how to get from one place to the next. Having to research every place we visited, coordinate buses, hotels, couchsurfers, taxis, meals, everything...it was a bit taxing after awhile. Please don't think I'm complaining, my mind and heart were so joyously happy, but my body just couldn't always keep up.

This became even clearer the second we collapsed on the bed in Jarabacoa...and decided getting up was the last thing we wanted to do. On top of this, Beth wasn't feeling well, and hadn't been for several days now. While I dashed out to get us a lunch of pica pollo and tostones, she laid down and checked out the cable situation. Honestly, I loved opportunities to move about independently. It made me feel like I was back in Guatemala, exploring Coban and Xela. I'm a pretty solitary person by nature, so roaming about on my own in an unfamiliar town didn't make me feel anxious at all, it actually relaxed me considerably.

After retrieving some food, eating on the bed (despite a polite sign on the wall asking us not to) and gorging ourselves on the People and Arts channel, we decided this was really all we wanted out of our time in Jarabacoa, and we were not going to feel guilty about it! Yes, it's beautiful, yes, Jurassic Park was filmed here, yes it has some of the most spectacular waterfalls in the country, but we wanted to be lazy and give our bodies a chance to catch up with us! The rest of the day was all about food, tv, the bed, and a little internet time to deal with the fiasco happening back home (bed bugs, you'll hear about it in the next post).

The next day, feeling revived, and embarrassingly sloth-like, we decided today we would give Jarabacoa and honest shot. We woke early, commandeered a couple motoconchos (motorcycle taxis) and set out for a Salesian monastery that supposedly had a pasta factory. We figured from there we'd ride up the hill to a series of pools and go swimming for a bit. Well, the monastery was a bust. Either the monks were all in seclusion...or it was just flat out empty. No pasta, either, total bummer. So, we continued on to Las Guazaras, a series of rapids and pools in what could basically be considered the Dominican highlands. Once we got there, we stripped down to our suits, jumped into the near frigid water and made some friends with a few local kids. They were thrilled to have some gringas to show off for, and started showing us all the best places to jump, dive and catch the current, and even did some bridge jumping as we feigned fear and shock. Naturally, we took a ton of pictures, had a blast splashing around with the boys, and even encouraged our motoconcho drivers to get in and enjoy the water. It was a great way to spend a morning, and an invigorating one.

Our plan for the rest of the day was to visit at least two of the three famed waterfalls, the most remote of which was the backdrop for the opening scene of Jurassic Park. However, as we settled down to lunch, those travel-weary feelings came over us again...and we settled in for another afternoon of relaxation. Honestly, neither one of us regretted not trekking up to the falls. The Dominican Republic abounds with beautiful sights, and we'd already logged quite a few fantastic waterfalls in our trip. This one probably was just as beautiful as everyone said, but we'll have to just trust the picture in our guidebook. We figured there was no sense in wearing ourselves down to the point of not being able to enjoy the rest of our time, and we still had a pretty fantastic morning at Las Guazaras to show for ourselves. Maybe on the next trip we'll try again :)

The Life of a Cabarete Surf Bunny

Cabarete is easy to skip over in the guidebook, if you're not a kite surfer, wind surfer, regular old surfer, or extreme sports junkie in general. Being none of these things, Beth and I were fine bypassing the little surf haven on the north coast en route to Puerto Plata. Were it not for the modern miracle that is couchsurfing, we'd never have given it a second thought, which looking back would have been a shame. Cabarete is full of folks from all over the world that come for the waves, and has a very southern California sort of feel. Lots of surf shacks, bars, restaurants, resorts, and such along the main strip, and life on a more normal level happens on the outskirts. There is a huge Norwegian population due to a study program established several years ago, and a very international flair altogether.

On our way out of Puerto Plata, we just happened to stop at an internet cafe. Waiting in Beth's inbox was a response from a couchsurfing host named Obdulio saying of course we could come and stay for a day or two, come on over! Luckily, neither Beth nor I are the type to stick to a strict itinerary, so changing up the game plan unexpectedly was fine by us. Forty five minutes later we were cruising along in a crowded guagua (Dominican short bus, basically) ready to make some new friends. We were picked up by Obdulio and his friend Omar, in some very surfer dude-ish SUV, and driven home to be introduced to all the surfer dude friends. Seriously, when we walked in the door there were five muscle-bound guys (and five ridiculously large, rambunctious, loveable dogs) standing around in board shorts and bare feet talking about that morning's waves. As a girl who has always lived in landlocked states and has minimal experience with riptides, curls, and long vs. short boards, this was a whole new world. Luckily these guys backed up the relaxed, chill attitude surfers are known for, and welcomed us right away. We spent the first afternoon sitting out on their balcony drinking communal Brahma beer and shooting the shit. Great way to spend an afternoon! Then Obdulio's, girlfriend Anne Grethe, a lovely Norwegian woman who coordinates the Norwegian study program, arrived and we all sat down to our first dinner and introduced our new friends to a dice game we're obsessed with. What a lovely mixed family we were. It was gnarly, in that good sort of way.

That's when "Surfer Dude" entered my consciousness. He'd been there all along of course, but in the sea of rippling abs, long locks and graphic prints, he'd been lost in the mix until now. It first occurred to me Surfer Dude was flirting when he suggested winner of the dice game gets a kiss from Lindsey. Surfer Dude lives the life part of me imagines for myself. He is slightly advanced in years (say closer my parents' age than my own), lived the high life working on the international fashion scene for a number of years, fell in love with surfing, moved to a tiny town on a tiny island, built his own modest little house and will spend the rest of his days in the sand. Sounds pretty amazing to me, and honestly, pretty seductive as well. I appreciate that sort of spirit in people. So, Surfer Dude and I established a sweet little vacationship. After several lovely days of getting up early to sit on the beach and watch him ride waves, strolling together in the surf, etc, something curious happened. Surfer Dude barged into the bedroom one afternoon as I was stepping out of the shower. Naturally I was not expecting him to simply smile, grab the few belongings he kept at Obdulio and Anne Grethe's home, and walk out the door. His abruptness was surprising and a little unnerving, and I just hoped he'd come back soon. I didn't have a good feeling.

After a few hours, and then a few more, I found out why Surfer Dude had walked out...and why he probably wouldn't turn up again. Disappointingly, but maybe not surprisingly, Surfer Dude was into cocaine, owed our host some money, and was presumedly on his way to meet up with his dealer who was coming into town that afternoon. Part of me was shocked that I can encounter women everyday in my job who are dependent on various substances, and yet I can't see that same dependence in someone I've become fairly intimate with, and the other part of me was just plain shocked. Not only that, I was insulted. I hated the fact I could be ditched so easily for a fucking drug. Yes, believe me, I understand (to an extent at least) addiction. I understand that it takes over, trumps your relationships, I understand all of that. However, this was too close to home, and I was still a woman scorned. Never before had addiction been such an intimate issue, and this was someone I'd only known a few days! Nothing more than a simple vacationship! I had read a bit on the Dominican drug situation, and knew there were drugs along the north coast, especially in communities like Cabarete and Cabrera, but I was not expecting to encounter them in any way, shape or form. To find that a person I'd developed a certain degree of respect for and interest in was also involved in that community was sad, disappointing, and actually a little embarrassing. Without writing a great diatribe about my views on self control, self respect, privilege, oppression and addiction, suffice it to say I am confident I am too scared, to lucky and too anal to find myself in the same situation. I'm not sure it's fair to project my views about illicit drugs onto others, but I had imagined Surfer Dude was too good for that, too balanced and healthy and happy. On top of that, I should have been able to see something in him. Was I fooled so easily?

It was a startling reminder of my job, our organization's purpose, and the great need for addictions counseling all over the globe. Surfer Dude was not like a typical Empowerment Program participant at all. He was extremely well-educated, worldly, well-traveled, comfortably wealthy, and seemingly the picture of health and ease. I was not expecting an addict to look and act like this, which is maybe why it was all the more disappointing. I was also not supposed to be attracted to someone who does coke! It was impossible now to not look back on the days we spent together and see him as an addict in disguise, which I know is unfair. How many times have I told a potential volunteer in an orientation that we refer to women at Empowerment as participants rather than putting a title like "addict" on them. Plus, Surfer Dude really was a genuinely good guy. He was sweet, funny, charming, gentle, interesting and I wish I could have spent more time with him. I know I cannot simply refer to him as an addict, it's dehumanizing and he's more than that. I need to let go of my own hang ups and realize, fully realize this time, that addiction has many faces and this is just one. It's not a surprise I couldn't see that side of him, that wasn't what he was going to show me, and it's not who he really is. Hopefully, he'll realize that too.

Surfer Dude never came around again after that, and we left Cabarete three days later. I spent those three days thinking about all I've learned about addiction while working with The Empowerment Program. I think even little experiences like this help make me better at my job. Being able to put a new face to addiction, and having a more personal experience with it (if only in a small way), will make me a better grant writer and a better advocate. Although I don't expect to have contact with Surfer Dude again, I hope he has reasons and motivations to move beyond whatever it is that is holding him back. I was an easy relationship to sacrifice, maybe the next won't be.

Beach Noir...

Our book promised Puerto Plata was a place like no other. There would be shady figures lurking about, people skulking around with briefcases and dark glasses, and a myriad of older American and European sorts living a life of leisure...under false names and identities. Believe it or not, if you're a white collar criminal looking to evade that pesky embezzeling charge or insider trading suit, Puerto Plata is the posh place to assume your brand new, above the law existance.

Puerto Plata is like most towns along the north coast of the DR; sunny, sandy beaches, a few scattered tourist attractions, and lots of people living life at a slower pace than I'm used to. Aside from this, there are also lots of people who fit the profile I described above. When we first read about the city in our guide book, we laughed and imagined shadowy figures in 1940's silhouettes, straight out of some campy noir film. Well, just change the setting to a balmy tropical locale, and you've got it. There honestly were old men reminiscent of Hannibal Lector at the end of "Silence of the Lambs" wandering around in fedoras and beige suits, with briefcases in hand and a suspicious amount of spare time. There were also more straight-laced folks in the internet cafes relaying messages about schedules, personal habits, whereabouts and other odd things for an internet cafe Skype conversation.

Puerto Plata is an odd, lovely place. Although we didn't actually make friends with anyone on the lam, we saw some lovely sites and had a very interesting cultural experience. When I travel, I try to withhold judgment and gain as much honest to goodness cultural knowledge as I can. I read up on a bit of history, I try to never eat at American chain restaurants, I never stay in resorts or fancy hotels, and I rarely use anything but cheapo public transportation. So, in hopes of getting that true blue DR experience, I went to my first, and last, cockfight.

Naturally, we were the only gringas in the place, thats become obvious and expected just about everywhere we go. We were also the only women period...which made things slightly more awkward. Adding to the awkward, we had no idea what actually went on at a cockfight other than betting and fighting and lots of men getting rowdy. Luckily, our confusion was obvious to a kindly gentleman who couldn't wait to tell us about the customs and rules, and introduce us to his champion rooster. It was a bit strange sitting and stroking the lovely plumes of this hefty bird, when I knew that in 20 minutes, if he wasn't already dead, he'd at least be bloody and battered. Actually, at the time I didn't even know that. I had no idea what to expect. I'd never read rules and regulations on cockfighting, I had no idea if they stopped the birds before it got ugly, and I had no idea just how bloody the event could get.

Our new friend took us all over the arena and betting areas, explaining little bits of the process here and there, and encouraging us to take pictures with all his friends. We visited the betting area where all the birds are on display according to their match and skill level. Then we wandered over to where the birds were being prepped for battle. Talons were being sharpened, feathers shaved, tempers riled. Then we moved into the arena, which was surprisingly clean and professional. The first two birds and their handlers, along with the referee and two judges were already in place, and about 60 men young and old had gathered for the afternoon match ups. The birds were thrust into each others' faces, ensuring they were ready for battle. When they were released they just attacked. There were feathers flying instantly, vicious pecking, and lots of kicking and sweeping of the talons at their opponent's breast and underbelly. There was blood almost instantly. I silently thanked God that these roosters had dark feathers, it made the first bought easier to stomach. At the same time I also prayed silently that I would be forgiven for my attendance, as it felt like it might be on par with sinning, big time.

The bouts are 20 minutes, and usually they don't last that long. A "good" match ends in less than five, with one limp bird being carried away to be butchered. Although there were 8 scheduled matches for the afternoon, we quietly thanked our new friends, invented dinner plans, and bowed out. Honestly, it was too much. Too much blood, too much death, too much noise, too much period. I came, I saw it for what it was, I decided I didn't want to contribute to it anymore.

As we left the arena, we talked about the experience. Beth, a farm girl, wasn't affected so much by the flying feathers and blood, you'd see that on any butchering day. For her, it was more about watching the crowd, learning about the process, and making some unexpected friends. For me, it was interesting and intriguing, but also painful. Watching anything breath it's last breathe is an intense experience. It reminded me of when my brother shot a crow with his BB gun when we were young. When it fell out of the tree I tried to save it, but naturally it died in my hands. Watching their bodies being carried away with the next birds already being prepped felt sad, and disrespectful. The dead birds will serve a purpose of course, and probably end up as delicious Dominican pica pollo. Knowing that helps a bit, but not enough to make me hit up another club gallistico. It made for an strange, exciting afternoon, and I´m happy to leave it at that. This trip is about forcing myself to move outside my traditional comfort zones, and surprise myself in new and unexpected ways. So far, I think I´m doing a stellar job.

Much Love for the Samana Peninsula

Cities are wonderful, and I love them. I love living in one. I love always feeling like I'm part of the action even when I'm simply sitting at my dining room table staring out the window. I do not, however, enjoy traveling in them very much. Although I've figured out numerous public transportation systems, memorized maps, dealt with masses of people and all of that, big cities are not why I come to places like the Dominican Republic. So, although I was having a wonderful time experiencing Santo Domingo and spending time with the girls in the Boca Chica orphanage, I already had one foot out the door.

Leaving Santo Domingo immediately put me at ease. After a slightly confusing morning waiting at the pulsing bus station, and not really knowing which bus was ours, when it was leaving, or why none of this was even being announced, we found ourselves crusing comfortably through the lovely countryside. Travel in the DR is quite impressive. For the equivalent of about four US dollars, we took a three hour bus trip to the northeast coast, called the Samana Peninsula. Take that, Greyhound!

First of all, Samana is lovely. It's lush, green, fertile, and full of rolling hills, scattered villages, and everything you'd expect from a Caribbean nation. Every bit of it we saw inspired contented smiles, and it was physically impossible to feel anything but happy and relaxed. The town of Samana is built around a small bay, and everything is within walking distance. Although we only spent three days exploring the area, we saw the highlights and made some new friends.

Our first day was spent getting settled, getting food and getting acquainted with the town. Now, Beth and I are budget travelers, but trying to get by on Spanish in unfamiliar territory all day can really take it out of you sometimes. Believe me, I groan inwardly as I even write this. The idea of being exhausted by paradise sounds ridiculous, I know. However, it's true and it happens often throughout the learning and relearning process. So, we tend to select our cheap hotels (when we're not couchsurfing) based on the following criteria; hot water, A/C, cable. Generally in that order, but sometimes when our brains are feeling romance-languaged out, cable elbows its way to the top of the priority list. So, after settling ourselves in a sweet little pensione that seemed to fullfill our needs (and even had a kitchenette!) we were fairly crushed to find our cable was kaput. The horror! Luckily, we'd established an emergency plan for situations like this...but dominoes and dice games can only get you so far. What other option did we have then to go out dancing?

I probably alluded to this a little in a previous post, but I bloody adore dancing. Always have. I generally take advantage of any opportunity to get on the floor, and it's very fun and very easy in the DR. We went to an open air bar, split a couple 40 oz. bottles of Presidente, the Bud of the DR as far as we can tell, and took it all in. Sadly, the dancefloor was pretty quiet, and the few times we were invited out for a spin our partners left something to be desired. Between the heat, the beer, the pre-existing dehydration due to irresponsible water consumption and just plain being tired, we decided to be lame and retire early.

The next couple days included horsebacking riding (on unshoed and slightly malnourished horses, sadly) through the rainforest to see the beautiful El Limon waterfall, playing dominoes with a couple local guys, flying through country roads crammed into the open back of a pick up truck, taking our very first motoconcho (motorcycle taxis that fit up to four, even though they're not exactly designed to do so), trying in vain to visit Samana's famous "Bridge to Nowhere" and finding you basically have to be a guest at the uber fancy Bahia Principe resort to step foot on the thing, hitting up a club our guide book promised to be the hottest merengue joint in town and finding nothing but an empty room with a few sad patrons and music so loud I think even my kidneys were covering their ears, late night and post-bar pico pollo runs, and gazing across the lovely bay as the sunset silhouetted the bobbing boats. All of this was wonderful, sometimes more after the fact than others, but nothing could even touch Playa Rincon.

Playa Rincon is the kind of beautiful I can't really explain, and pictures can't capture. They say it's the best beach in the country and I believe them, all of them! In one sweeping glance there are white sand beaches, densely covered mountains, swaying palms, tropical flowers, crashing waves, a few hut restaurants serving fish, lobster, chicken and other local bits hot off the open flames, and a few local families and tourists counting their blessings. Playa Rincon is a bitch to get to, and my poor stomach was doing backflips trying to hold in breakfast for most of the moderately treacherous trip. Our driver, God bless him, asked several times if I was pregnant due to my desperate gut clutching and heaving. I think he was also fairly freaked out I'd vomit on his interior. After everything resettled itself and the shakiness in my knees dissipated, I was finally able to take in the beautiful stretch of beach. The water was clear, there were a few kids diving for coral (don't worry, it's a dead reef), the smells from the restaurant were mouthwatering and as far as we could tell we were the only Americans around.

After a lunch of grilled, whole Chillo fish (which ended with me trying a fish eye for the first time, interesting) we splashed in the waves, made the mistake of parking our towels too close to the surf, wrote some postcards, marveled a bit more, made numerous comparisons to the movie "The Beach" and kept an eye out for the lady selling coconut bread. Since we'd underestimated how long the trip would actually take, we were only able to spend about two hours in our little paradise before the sun started to sink and we thought it best to head back.

That night, I somehow inspired deep and abiding love in a very sweet, surprisingly sincere Dominican man named Leo. Now, Beth and I got used to cat calls, whistles, hisses, "hey baby's" and "ay mami's" pretty early on in the trip. Most of the time they're incredible insincere, mildly offensive, and just ridiculous. I have no idea what came over this young man, but without even trying (or being interested) I had him genuinely smitten. He was quite a gentleman, took us out, danced with us, didn't let us touch the tab, walked us home, asked shyly for a kiss and made me promise I would see him tomorrow. Even though he didn't have a shot in hell, he was a total gentleman, not at all pushy, very sweet, and treated us with respect. It was a nice change, and it earned him that goodnight kiss. I will remember him fondly, and hope he will me.

Although Samana was lovely and we could have shacked up there for days, our guide book promised great things about the northern coast. We'd already extended our stay in Samana by a day, and figured two was pushing it. As our bus pushed out early in the morning for a town five hours away called Puerto Plata, I couldn't imagine what was coming next. I surprised myself so many times in the next week, you'll get to hear about at least a couple incidents soon. Thanks again for keeping up!

Thank God for Changes in the Itinerary!

Initially, the Dominican Republic was not part of this trip. Rather, I was to spend two weeks in Jamaica with a community health non profit I had a loose connection to in Denver. Through a turn of events and the realization that I could probably have a cheaper time in the DR, I changed the plans with little thought or trouble. Honestly, the DR had never even crossed my mind, and I definitely never assumed I'd love it enough to extend my trip twice to enjoy it as long as I possibly could. However, that is the case and I have fallen in love with this beautiful little country.

We first arrived by boat after a very creaky, swaying night spend stretched out in various positions on the floor of a large room filled with extremely uncomfortable impostor recliners. The previous night as we were enjoying some live music on the deck, we happened to meet a very nice Puerto Rican couple named Bobbi and Ben. Bobbi and Ben love the DR as well and have been visiting for years now, long enough to build a relationship with a girls' orphanage outside of Santo Domingo. Upon hearing this we were obviously very interested and inquired about possible volunteer opportunities. They were thrilled to hear this and quickly encouraged us to go to the school with them the following morning to meet the girls and the directors. Sure enough, Ben found us the next morning, insisted on taking us to the ship's restaurant for breakfast and then as soon as we made it through the customs line at the port we were whisked off in a rented car to Boca Chica. Boca Chica is a suburb of Santo Domingo and situated on the coast just east of the city. The orphanage sits in the middle of the community, across the street from a concrete park, and is home to 26 girls age 7 to 22. We learned that previously, when donations were more frequent, the home was able to provide shelter to nearly 50 girls in need. We were greeted at first with shy curiosity, and then exuberant laughter. The girls were sweet, patient with each other, very well mannered and acted as sisters. It was easy to see there was no division between ages, and very little clique behavior, everyone was simply family. We learned many of the girls had been abandoned by family or sold into the sex trade. The orphanage has also initiated a campaign to end the sex trade in the Dominican Republic, and raise awareness about the plight of young girls forced into the business. Although we were able to spend less than a week with the girls, we made some wonderful connections. Several of the older girls were excited at the opportunity to practice their surprisingly impressive English on us, and we were able to talk about their lives in the home, what they wanted their futures to look like, and why you don't want to date Chris Brown. Leaving was hard. It's not often I get emotionally involved in volunteerism, but this time I did. They were so free and open with their love, it was hard not to get attached. Beth and I both decided we would visit again before our time in the country is up, and I know we will. It would be impossible to break a promise to all those smiling, expectant girls. The sadness they showed upon our leaving will definitely hold us to our word.

Although this sort of volunteering is not the kind I intended to do while traveling, I could see so many ways it paralleled my work in Denver. Although we don't directly serve women involve in human trafficking, the sex trade is all around us. Generally, we never see victims so young in the states, but North Americans and Europeans travel in droves to the DR simply to experience sex tourism. I recently read there are several towns along the north coast of the country in which the trade was so intense and so dangerous that the government intervened and closed all bars and hotels in one fell swoop. Eliminating the tourism in these areas did much to end the sex trade, for awhile. In the first few days of our trip, it was evident there is still much to be done to protect both children and adults from becoming victims. I would have loved to have spoken about HIV and AIDS services for girls and women, and asked about other services available specifically to women and girls, but I found myself being called simply to spend time with them and research later. I knew my time was brief, and probably best spent nurturing the short, but hopefully meaningful, relationships I was building with the girls and staff. Before we left we were encouraged not to forget about them, I replied that it would be impossible.

During this time we were also able to explore a bit of Santo Domingo, and meet our second couchsurfing host of the trip, Erick. Erick was fresh to the couchsurfing world, and we were very excited to be his very first guests. He seemed a bit hesitant, but ended up being very generous and welcoming. Within an hour of our arrival we had been invited to join him and some friends at a soccer tournament hosted by a local hotel. Our stay only lasted two days, but Erick was nice enough to take us on a tour of the Zona Colonial and even arranged for a group of friends to go out dancing with us. That night is probably on of the best we've had thus far in the trip. I love Dominican night clubs! This one was particularly exciting, all open air, beer is served in 40 oz bottles with plastic cups to share, the music is loud, everyone is sweaty, and everyone is expected to dance. I have to admit, sometimes I enjoy the novelty of being a gringa in a Latin country. I enjoy it even more when men realize I can dance, and dance well. There is not much in my life that I feel comfortable bragging about, but I have always known I can move. I found myself spinning around the crowded floor with dancers of all shapes, sizes and abilities, and loving every second. Due to an ankle injury in late summer, I hadn't danced in several months and could feel the itch. Thank goodness I found some men who can bachata and merengue! Two hours later we tumbled into Erick's friend's car and shot off into the night back home. I couldn't help but think how wonderful it is when everyday is an adventure, and how unexpected this night was.

Santo Domingo is big and slightly overwhelming, and we still have much to discover. However, Beth and I are much more interested in the small towns and tucked away gems. The city couldn't hold our interest for long and we were longing for exotic experiences in places like Samana and Puerto Plata. After five days, we were off for the next round of this Dominican adventure. Can't wait to tell you all about in my next entry!

Playing Catch Up!

Hello to everyone reading! I apologize for not writing for awhile, internet access has been spotty and brief, and never consistent enough to devote time to an entry. So many big and little things have happened in the past few weeks that I have a difficult time figuring out where to begin!

First off, I have learned a little bit more about women's health in Puerto Rico, and access to reproductive health services. My friend, Jessica, is a graduate assistant at the University here and I was recently able to accompany her on a trip to the university clinic. While we were waiting for her appointment, she and I chatted about the health services available to students, primarily females. I was very surprised and pleased to learn that birth control is extremely affordable for students, around $5 per month, and STD testing is always free of charge to all students. STD tests, including an HIV test, are also required annually when renewing one's birth control prescription, and condoms are given away by the handful. There were also numerous posters and pamphlets related to specific issues in women's health and reproduction, and I got the impression there was very little stigma attached to accessing these services. The one downside was that actually getting to see the doctor generally takes upwards of three hours. Sadly, no matter how wonderful the services are, I'm sure the many students have to walk out on their appointments simply to get to class, work or other engagements. One thing that did sort of concern me was the fact that there seemed to be very little concern for privacy when discussing sensitive health information. There was a student in the corner who was visibly upset, shaking and crying while having a conversation with one of the physicians. She seemed like she was trying very hard to contain herself, and it was obvious she'd rather be having this conversation in a private room...as opposed to the general waiting room which at that time was crowded up with at least 20 other students. I guess I'm just used to an environment in which confidentiality and client comfort is a top priority. It was odd and uncomfortable to see such an intimate conversation taking place in such a public setting.

Other than that, we had a wonderful rest of the week in Rincon. I swam and played on no less than four different beaches and got to enjoy an old friend and a not so old friend becoming fast friends themselves. I love that! Makes me feel like I have lots of quality people in my life. However, after a week of laid back beach town, we had to continue on our way. This past week was spent in the rainforest near a small mountain town called Utuado. Some of you have probably already heard this story, but our original plan was to work for two weeks on a sustainable coffee plantation in Adjuntas. We were extremely excited and had set the plan into motion months ago. Suddenly, four days before we were to arrive in San Juan, our plantation hosts cancelled very unexpectedly with no real explanation, and it was very disappointing. I scrambled for a few days to find a similar appointment, because I really didn't want to spend 8 full weeks as a typical tourist. I would much rather feel like I'm actually contributing something to the place I'm visiting than just consuming it. So, long story short, we found Marlene. Marlene is a 60ish expat who rents out a small cottage on the edge of her property. In exchange for a reduced rate, we agreed to spend a few hours a day working and doing whatever chores she needed. Sounds pretty straight forward, it was anything but. We found ourselves stuck in the middle of almost nowhere with a certified lunatic. Seriously folks, our host was off her bloody rocker in a big way. Not only was she a chain smoking drunk, but she was a conspiracy theorist, extremely passive aggressive, had some of the most frequent and extreme mood swings I've ever encountered, contradicted herself every two minutes, made odd statements such as "I have supersonic hearing" and preferred to refer to herself as "She" or "Pinky". After six days of thinly veiled personal insults and patronizing comments, being forced to sit through her anti-everything rants, and doing shit jobs such as de-ticking her six infested dogs, we were more than ready to get the hell out of dodge. I could go into detail about how God awful those six days actually were, but I'm over it and moving beyond!

One thing I can say for Marlene is that she knows good people, and was nice enough to give us some invaluable connections as we left her home en route to Mayaguez. Through Crazy Marlene, we were able to meet Salvatore, taxi driver and cousin to Puerto Rican rock star Robby Drago Rosa, don{t worry, we had never heard of him either. Not that it mattered to Salvatore, he was still thrilled to death to drive us to Mr. Rosas country home and let us play around the lovely hacienda. It just so happened Mr. Rosas dad was in for the week and suddenly we found ourselves sipping delicious coffee, playing with Robby´s cats and watching his music videos on Youtube. Turns out this guy is huge! Not only was he a founding member of Menudo, but is still an enormous latin star and a songwriter for Ricky Martin. All of those number one hits generally first belonged to Robby, it was sort of surreal.

After that we were on our way again. Luckily, Salvatore is a wonderful man who loved indulging us and showing off his island, and didn´t mind arriving a few hours later than expected to Mayaguez. We stopped off in the town of Lares, the birthplace of Puerto Rican nationalism...and the home of the most interesting ice cream shop I have ever encountered. Over a span of 20 minutes, I tried avocado, pumpkin, rice, bean, corn, and breadfruit ice cream...as well as a strange flavor that seemed like a cross between egg nog and butterscotch! As it was also plastered with memoribilia from the town´s political past, I also felt like I was getting a free history lesson. Before leaving town Salvatore insisted we stop at a streetside lechonera, or pork stand, for a bite. I was able to try friend pig skin for the first time, and it was surprisingly delicious. Had it not been for the intense greasiness I probably would have order skin straight up.

Several hours and brief stops to oooh and ahh over waterfalls and local sites, we were at the home of couchsurfing hosts Aldy and Yano Hernandez. I feel entirely confident in saying these two are extraordinary people. They´re the kind of people that just make you feel like the world isn´t so big after all, and that maybe we don´t give each other enough hugs. Seriously, I have a couple crush. Aldy and Yano are veterans of the couchsurfing movement, and estimate they have hosted hundreds of different travellers. We were extremely disappointed to only be spending two days with them, but immediately felt comfortable and at ease in their home full of random dogs, cats, tennants and even a pet goat named Anais. During this time I had also been sick for about three days. Whatever it was was camping out in my chest, preventing sleep and causing a truly glorious lung rattling cough. Naturally they have a doctor friend down the street, and Mari, a tennant, just happened to be a pharmacist who was generous with over the counter prescriptions. By the time we left for the ferry to the Dominican Republic, Aldy, Yano, Beth, Mari, and I had become easy friends and had even made plans to go snorkeling together upon our return. How a situation can change in just a matter of hours! Thank God we didn´t escape the western side of the island thinking all inhabitants were all like Crazy Marlene!

After a 12 hour ferry in which we camped out on the floor we found ourselves in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. At this point I must peel myself off of this computer and be satisfied with waiting until another day to share more about my travels. It´s getting late, dark, and I have chocolate and blessed American cable stations waiting for me in my hotel room! There will be more coming soon! Thanks so much for keeping up with me!

Back in the travel groove...

Writing this I can't help but feel like I'm in Honduras all over again. I'm sweaty, I hear the chirps of unfamiliar birds and insects, I just had a lovely meal that included tortilla, and I have the slightly confused feeling of being both on a Spanish language mission and on vacation simultaneously. In actuality, I am in Rincon, Puerto Rico, a small surfer town on the western side of this small island. A good friend from college, and my main inspiration for deciding to trek through PR, happens to live here. I can see the Caribbean in all it's glory from her balcony, and every once and awhile I glimpse a lizard dashing across her walls.

Rincon is a beautiful place, but still quite new to Beth (my travel partner) and I. We just arrived Saturday afternoon after spending a week in San Juan taking refresher Spanish courses and refreshing ourselves in Latin culture. San Juan was interesting and challenging in it's own ways, but honestly we were both happy to leave. After six days of maddeningly inaccurate bus schedules, extreme temperatures outside and extreme air conditioning inside, and paying city prices for just about everything, Rincon is a nice change of pace. There were several highlights in our first round of San Juan, though. First off, we were lucky enough to have two wonderful people as Spanish language instructors. Jose and Lizzy were great teachers, and also gave us invaluable information on cheap places to eat and stay, helped us coordinate our publico bus trip to Rincon, and even gave us rides back to the hotel several times throughout the week. Jose, my instructor, was big on conversational practice, so I took advantage and asked him all about Puerto Rico's political structure, social issues, cultural norms, and basic things like traditional foods, music, and the best places to visit throughout the island.

As a very important part of my time here will also include visiting women's organizations, Jose and I also discussed services for women and programs I might want to contact. Sadly my top two choices never responded to my introductory emails, but I will keep looking and keep contacting. Luckily I still have seven more weeks to go! However, after several conversations with my college friend Jessica, and her graduate school advisor, Ricia (who also happens to be building a women's studies minor at the University of Puerto Rico Mayaguez), it might be harder than I'd first thought. According to Jess and Ricia, a massive cultural stigma still exists which keeps a great many women from seeking and taking advantage of social services, whether it be for domestic violence, family planning, addictions counseling or trauma therapy. The majority of women who may need these services instead choose to remain quiet and handle their issues internally. As discouraging as this news is to my goal, I am not terribly surprised to hear it. However, they also were able to give me some excellent contacts and I look forward to taking advantage of them.

So, for the rest of today Beth, Jess, myself and several of Jess's friends will be celebrating her birthday on the beach in Boqueron, which is said to be one of the most beautiful little spots on the island. After a week on the Atlantic Ocean side of the island where the currents are so strong we actually saw police gathering up the body of a young female tourist who had drown in the undertow, we are very much looking forward to the calmer, gentler waters of the Caribbean. I'm still deciding if I would like to learn to surf during my time here. Sometimes it seems thrilling, and other times I decide I'm too much of a wimp. Can't really imagine I'll be able to keep it up in Denver anyway :)

Our next leg of this adventure will take us into the hilly coffee region of the island, so look out for more postings about rain forest cottages, iguanas and possibly even monkeys soon! Thanks for keeping up with me while I'm away!

La Experiencia Hace La Diferencia

I read that line written in faded blue paint on a random building outside of Xela, Guatemala...and after a year of having it tucked into all the memories of that summer, I think I finally understand it. Experience does make a difference, my time in Guatemala made a big difference in me. So, why not gather as much as you can and see the difference it makes in you? This blog has changed and grown and expanded beyond the simple experience of a summer in Guatemala. It is still devoted travel and seeing the world, but it's also about personal growth, and life lesson learned. Now, thanks to a magnanimous boss and a year of living like a miser, this blog will follow me through the next two months in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic.

Reading my Guatemala posts I realized I thought, felt, spoke and learned more deeply when I was in an environment that was continually challenging me. Guatemala was a constant adventure in that speaking, interacting, creating relationships, getting from one place to another, everything required effort. The simple fact that I was suddenly a minority with a shaky grasp on the language and little social context forced me to be adaptable, creative, and doubly responsive to offers of help. Everything about that experience made a difference in me, and I'm sure this one will too. Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic will present their own set of challenges. They have a unique history, culture, patois, cuisine and transporation system, and yet (in the case of PR) are still experiencing the influence and umbrella of the United States. I can't even imagine what an interesting dynamic that has created.

The Dominican Republic is still somewhat of a mystery to me. I regret that I have not spent more time in the months prior to this experience learning more about the the history and culture of this nation who shares a border with one the poorest most environmentally degraded countries in the world. Hopefully lazy afternoons spent on Puerto Rican beaches will provide ample time to study up before we step on the boat.

At the date of publication, I have five days until my flight into San Juan, and I can only assume they'll be an experience in themselves. So much to do, so much to pack, so much to plan, so many goodbyes. I can't help but wonder what my world view will look like come December 19th. Here's to a little more life experience!

Tortillas, but So Much More

Back in the states, I never, ever would have put down money for a corn tortilla. Before coming to Guatemala, my experience with corn tortillas had been pretty disappointing. They were always stale, tasteless, and far inferior to their soft, chewy flour counterparts. Basically they could ruin an otherwise good meal just by being there. I am a changed woman.

Keep in mind these are just observations and bits of interesting information I´ve learned along the way, and I´m sure many a cultural anthropologist could say all this better with more clarity and precision. However, I feel like I´ve devoured enough stellar corn tortillas, and spent enough time in the company of those who can make a mean one, in my three months here to be able to write a musing little blog.

As an Iowa girl, I know corn. I grew up literally surrounded by it, and ate it for dinner an average of three times a week, and that was in winter. However in Guatemala, corn isn`t just a diet staple, it`s a thing to be revered. Part of my pre-Guatemala studies also taught me that many Mayan groups perform extensive ceremonies asking permission of the earth before planting or harvesting the crop. I would like to see an Iowa farmer perform such a task before climbing into his combine.

According to the Popul Vuh, the Mayan sacred text which translates to The Book of the Community, the Mayan people are literally The People of Corn. The Mayan creation story explains how the gods tried several different materials including wood and mud during the construction of humanity, and found them lacking, until they built men and women of corn. This is a small exerpt-

¨They came together in darkness to think and reflect. This is how they came to decide on the right material for the creation of man. ... Then our Makers Tepew and Q'uk'umatz began discussing the creation of our first mother and father. Their flesh was made of white and yellow corn. The arms and legs of the four men were made of corn meal.¨

As they play such a crucial role in the Mayan cosmovision it`s not a surprise that, corn and corn tortillas aren´t just food sources in Guatemala, they´re cultural and spiritual icons. I´ve seen corn tortillas integrated into Guatemalan culture in a number of different ways over the past 12 weeks. In the Mayan-Catholic church in Chichicastenango they were brought up to the altar as an offering. In Guatemala City they were small, almost perfectly round, made of black corn, and were on the table at every meal. In Chamelco they were thick, soft, and the size of dinner plates. Here in Xela they often appear in the form of a tamalito, a small slice of husk-wrapped cornmeal. Working at Bezaleel School, I knew I´d finally arrived when I could down an entire bowl of soup using only tortillas. Corn is also present in the form of tamales, chuchitos, atol, and other local fare. I remember reading in ¨I, Rigoberta Menchu¨during my Guatemala preparations, that she and her large family subsisted almost entirely on tortillas and maiz atol, a thick, sweet, milky drink made of ground corn. If they were lucky they had some chile as well.

In some areas of Guatemala the word for tortilla in that region´s native language (there are 26 in Guatemala) is the same word for food itself. In the Kekchi language for example, the word for tortilla is ¨cua¨and the primary verb for ¨to eat¨is ¨cuac.¨ As some fellow volunteers, who speak quite decent Kekchi, explained to me, you can down an entire meal, but if you haven´t had tortilla yet, you haven´t actually eaten.

So, I´ve identified just one more way Guatemala has changed me. This isn´t a huge change, it`s more of a palate expansion than anything else, but maybe a little more than that. Guatemala`s culture and values have rubbed off on me a bit, and have yet again left me feeling a little more reverent of the world around me and my own connection to the earth, and I`m left wanting to learn more. Even if I can´t relate to corn and corn tortillas the same way a native Quiche or Mam Mayan would for example, I now have more context to understand and respect the connection they feel. Pass the tortillas please.

Thoughts on Xela, and What Comes Next

Today marks the end of my second week in the city of Xela, the second largest and most important city in Guatemala after the capital. It´s a beautiful, very European-styled, city midway between Guate and the Mexico border, and I absolutely adore it. Originally Xela was not part of the plan at all. Those who read some of my first entries will know that I started out the summer thinking that at this point I´d still be doing service, and presumably in Honduras. I am so happy I scrapped that plan and didn´t look back! Xela fits, very well in fact. It´s a sort of haven for American, Canadian, German, Dutch, and English travellers and basically every other nationality you can name. People from all over the globe come to seriously study Spanish, but yet at the same time Xela is very traditional and very Guatemala. Walking through the streets you still hear Spanish as well as the native Quiche, but Dutch, English and others are still common.

The city itself is quite pretty. Although it´s modern, it´s cleaner and more charming than the capital, but more realistic than Antigua, basically a perfect mix. The streets are cobblestone, the homes and businesses a rainbow of colors, and the buildings in the heart of the city are tall stone edifices that almost remind me of some of the Dublin streets I strolled down 8 years ago. The central park is flanked by restaurants, salsa bars, and shops and the city just has a very relaxed, casual, friendly vibe. I am lucky enough to be living only three blocks from the square and one block from my language school. It´s a great location from which to explore the city. My host family here is much more financially stable than my family in the capital, and it´s been very interesting observing the different lifestyle they lead. They have been equally warm and welcoming, and I even have a housemate from NYC named Sunny. She and I get along very well and it´s nice having another student in the house.

The quality of Spanish language education, in my case anyway, is also much, much higher. I feel as though I´m finally learning here, and regret spending so much time in the city to be honest. In two weeks I´ve been able to experience two different teachers, and I much prefer this method of learning. Before my second week they actually recommended that I change it up because people who do so also tend to learn at a quicker rate. After having the same sweet, but generally disappointing profesora in the city for seven weeks, this was a welcome change. Carlos, my first maestro, loved talking futbol and politics, was great at correcting me on my use of the preterite and imperfect tenses, and even took me to see the birthplace of President Arbenz Guzman. Ligia was very sweet and never let me get away with using masculine and femenine improperly, and indulged me when I wanted to spend class time visiting a famous Xela bakery. They have both been excellent for my progress, and I´m very excited to work with Jessica next week, which is also my final week in Xela and in Guatemala...for now.

After having travelled almost every weekend since I arrived in Guatemala, I decided my last one should be spent enjoying the present. I´m really looking forward to just spending the day exploring a little more of the city. I plan to attend mass at the beautiful cathedral, wander through the museum, maybe pick up a few things at the market, and possibly meet another student for dinner at one of the many restaurants that look so delicious. I also wouldn´t mind ending up taking a few spins on the dance floor as I discovered two days ago I´m actually a pretty good salsa dancer. Good to know those 13 years of ballet and jazz are still serving me well.

Although I love the idea of just spending a whole lazy, leisurely weekend enjoying Xela, I have to admit I have an itch to see Chichicastenango just one more time. I´m heading to the Chichi market with some other students early Sunday morning to tuck in just one last big Guatemala market experience. The first time I was pretty rushed, and I would like to enjoy a full Mayan-Catholic mass at San Tomas while I can. Since it´s just a day trip from Xela I don´t have to go through all the trouble of figuring out multiple busses and coordinating times and hostels, which is a nice change of pace.

Since my time here is quickly coming to a close I´ve also been trying to remind myself that, although it might feel that way, Guatemala is not my reality. Honestly thats a really hard truth to accept. I truely love Denver and the life I have there, but every day in Guatemala is an adventure, and that becomes very addicting very quickly. I´ve come close to tears several times in the past weeks thinking about the fact that I really do have to leave, and generally over insignificant little nuances of Guatemalan life. It´s not that I even prefer Guatemala over Denver, but I think I´ve fallen in love with the feeling I have being here. Three months isn´t a lifetime, but it´s enough to become more the kind of person I wanted to be, and thats equally addictive. I don´t want to over-romanticize my experience here, but I think anytime you find an environment that allows, or maybe encourages, you to become more fully yourself, you can´t help but feel like you´re leaving something terribly important behind when it´s time to go. I know that my Guatemala experience doesn´t end when I leave the country, but it sure feels like that from where I sit right now.

How I went to Coban and came back with blood stains, stitches, and two prescription antibiotics

It actually was a lovely day. The rains had stopped after twelve straight hours and there was a nice breeze blowing through Chamelco as I boarded the microbus headed to Coban. I was not actually planning to go to Coban, but the rains had left the famous pools of Semuc Champey looking like chocolate milk and not their usual startlingly clear blue, and I was told by many not to even bother. Hence, I changed my weekend plans and decided to explore the city of Coban.

It happened not even 100 steps into the city. After the torrential downpour of the previous two days, there was a considerable amount of standing water in the street, but I was not deterred! Like the locals, I decided to suck it up, take off my shoes and wade through the mire. At this point you´re probably assuming, well the bare-footed idiot probably stepped on something. Wrong! To be safe, I decided to reach out and hold onto a metal fence on the edge of the murky water, just in case it was deeper than I thought or I stepped on one of the many broken bottles that litter the streets. I´m still not sure exactly how it happened, but as I stepped in I felt a odd sensation in my fingers. When I looked down at my hand I realized I was also looking at two exposed medial phalanges...and a lot of blood. At this point, I´m standing in swirling muck, holding my shoes, dripping blood at an alarming rate, trying to keep myself calm, and praying I don´t step on something in the thirty some feet of standing water between me and help.

I managed to keep myself calm enough to get through the water, struggle back into my shoes, and stumble into the nearest tienda just as the pain was starting to get intense. In Spanish I was able to explain to the slightly perplexed owner just what had happened, and she brought me a little stack of napkins to try and stop the bleeding, which had left my favorite shorts with dark reddish brown splotches. Then she ran upstairs to get a nurse who miraculously lived upstairs and was home. The nurse gave me a preliminary cleaning and helped me keep my hand elevated as the shock began to set in. I don´t remember ever experiencing shock before, but holy shit is it a frightening sensation. Within minutes my limbs had gone completely stiff, I couldn´t slow my breathing no matter how hard I tried and my fingers were totally immobilized. I momentarily convinced myself I´d also developed lock jaw, but then realized even the name implied I hadn´t. At that point I began to consciously attempt to talk myself out of shock mentally in English, while trying to maintain conversation with the people assisting me in Spanish. I didn´t fully comprehend at that point that not only had I cut through skin, but nerves as well.

All of the sudden I found myself on a stretcher heading for an little Guatemalan ambulance. It might seem a bit ridiculous, but at that point my legs definitely were not taking me anywhere. My medic was named Jose, and I think he got a kick out of my attempt to appear calm, cool, and collected, and probably my Spanish as well. Before I knew it I was explaining the situation all over again to the dozen aids who surrounded my hospital bed the second I made it off the stretcher. Apparently gringas with superficial finger injuries are a curiousity. My doctor was actually very nice and very efficient, although the shot of pain medication straight into my raw and exposed muscle made me want to throttle her. She had me cleaned up, sewn up, and sent off with two prescription medications in under 30 minutes. I must say, they did a wonderful job with me, and I was thrilled to be making it through the experience. There was a tiny part of me that desperately wished someone was there, not to help me through it, but just to witness it. I mean the situation really was ridiculous, I sliced my hand open on a fence that shouldn´t have been able to slice bread and wound up on a rural Guatemalan hospital bed,when the plan was to spend a day casually strolling through the museum and eating a good meal. Not only that, but I was getting through it all by myself, in Spanish, and not freaking out. I was oddly proud of myself.

After leaving the hospital and passing five closed pharmacies (it was a Sunday after all), I realized my next task might be harder than I´d like. Finally I found an open pharmacy, and since I had not anticipated on spending almost 300 quetzales on prescription medication, I had to bargain with the pharmacist to allow me to get half the medication but still hold onto the prescription, all in Spanish again. Roughly 200 Q later, I walked happily away with a few days supply of prescription painkillers and antibiotics. Then, since I had to take my pills with food anyway, I stopped at a slightly fancy restaurant to blow my last 30 Q on a piece of german chocolate cake the size of my head, and it was totally worth it.

The rest of the day actually went quite well. I fulfilled my plans to walk up the hundreds of steps to the Templo Calvario, and made it there just in time for afternoon mass (during which I made sure to say plenty of prayers of thanks). Then I wandered around the city a bit, and tried to get used to my bandaged and basically useless pointer and middle fingers. As the initial pain meds wore off the injury, although relatively minor as injuries go, became achingly intense.

It´s now been over two weeks, and I can tell the scars will be small, but they´ll always be there. They didn´t heal as quickly as my doctor had anticipated, and the stitches had to remain in for almost a full week after the original estimate. After spending another hour in the Red Cross waiting room here in Xela, I decided to remove the stitches myself and despite a little pain was successful. The feeling is fine in both fingers, but the mobility will take time. The stitches were actually an interesting topic of conversation here in Xela and at Bezaleel School as well. They were an odd way to break the ice with the students in both locations, and I got used to living life with 8 fingers very quickly. Now that they´re gone it feels a little funny. It´s strange, but it´s one of those life experiences that, after the fact, I didn´t really mind having. I´ve given a little blood to Guatemala, and Guatemala in turn will leave me with two scars, one jagged and one smooth and straight. I can´t think of a better metaphor for my experiences here.

Leaving CASAS, Leaving Guatemala City

I´m writing this post from the small city of Chamelco in the Alta Verapaz department (similar to state) of Guatemala. I´ve been living just outside of Chamelco in a Mennonite-sponsored, Guatemala-operated boarding school for Kekchi students for the past week. This is a pretty extreme change from the life I lead in Guatemala City, and this actually was not the original plan at all. I decided to depart from the CASAS program a little early in order to give myself a little more freedom and flexibility with my time here. I realized before I came to Guatemala that I was enrolling in a structured program, but what I could not have known then was that remaining in the CASAS program would mean I wouldn´t have the opportunity to experience Guatemala the way I wanted to in my short time here. It´s a wonderful program and I have plenty of respect for the way it´s run, but if you´re not a college student earning credit for your time, it can feel a bit stifling. Thankfully the staff was understanding of my situation and feelings and helped me work out a new plan.

I left the program one week early and came to Chamelco (near Coban) to do two weeks of ¨service¨at Bezaleel School. The more I am here in Guatemala the less I agree with coming here with the idea of ¨serving¨the people here, so I don´t really like to use that term. My days this past week have mostly consisted of eating, helping students whose first language is Kekchi and second language is Spanish translate their English homework, learning Kekchi phrases, helping out in the huge vegetable and herb garden, and studying Spanish independently. It´s a great experience for me, and wonderful for my Spanish comprehension skills. At first I was crushed when I couldn´t understand a word anyone was saying, then I realized they were all speaking their native Kekchi. Then I realized I was always a little relieved when they stuck to Kekchi because it took all the pressure off me to keep up with what was going on. Then I became frustrated that I couldn´t understand Kekchi and wished they would just be nice and speak a little Spanish. One word that translated no matter what though, was ¨Gringa.¨

Leaving Guatemala City actually wasn´t the least bit sad, leaving the people I have been surrounded by for the last seven weeks definitely was. Luckily we were just coming off a wonderful weekend at Lake Atitlan, so I went out on a very high note. I still feel very lucky and grateful to have experienced as much of Guatemala City as I did. Had I chosen to study in the more mainstream Spanish study towns I would have missed out on a huge chunk of Guatemalan life. Guatemala City is the reality of more than 3 million people, and had I gone the Antigua route I would have had a very skewed perception of this country. Being in Guatemala gave me a very solid foundation for the exploring the rest of the country, and forced me consider the issues the average Guatemalan faces on a daily basis.

Bezeleel will be home for only another week, and then I´m on to Xela for two more weeks of language study with another school. Honestly, even though this is a beautiful place with a beautiful native culture, I don´t think I´ll be too sad to leave. Being around three hundred Guatemalan teenagers has made me realize that teenagers are teenagers no matter where you are in the world, and it´s even worse when they have two languages to use against you. Most are extremely sweet and welcoming, but others...not so much. I definitely value this experience despite, but part of me is thrilled that I am not staying here the entire four weeks I had planned on earlier.

The Things I´ve Seen

This post is an attempt to make up for all the things I have not yet written about during my time in Guatemala. I think now I avoided writing for the first month because relaying everything I was seeing, thinking, and feeling literally seemed exhausting. As a result, so much has happened that I have yet to record.

First of all, I must say one thing I really enjoy and appreciate about the CASAS program is the fact that it´s not just language, it´s social justice and human rights education. During our first week in the city we took a little field trip to Zona Uno to visit the National Cemetary, National Palace, city dump and Catholic Cathedral. At the National Cemetary we were greeted by both the simple shrine to President Arbenz Guzman, a true defender of the people and champion of shared wealth and resources, and the ridiculously ornate, and ironically Egyptian pyramid-styled, tomb of the Castillo family, arguably the most powerful family in the country with considerable land holdings. Only feet away stood rows and rows of stacked, rented tombs for those too poor for a more permanent burial plot. Only several minutes walk from this point, we came upon a large grave devoted to a former military leader which had been a favorite clandestine trial and execution spot of the paramilitary due to it´s close proximity to prime body-dumping sites. I realized I stood on the site where people, most like good, innocent, peace-loving people, had their last thought in the name of peace and justice.

We then continued on to the city dump where the bodies had been tossed for so many years, to see the bodies of the poor, ïnformal sector¨workers digging feverishly to recover recyclable, reusable treasures. They sorted through our garbage, amongst our used toilet paper - Guatemalans are not able to flush toilet paper due to bad pipe systems - and other horrid-smelling refuse to eek out an existence. Vultures circled overhead and the stench was overwhelming. It was only several years ago that the city mandated people could no longer live directly in the dump, and children were not allowed to work in it.

Then there was the National Palace, site of the signing of the historic - and largely ignored - Peace Accords, with murals depicting Mayan people as naked savages alongside beautiful stained glass representations of the 12 pillars of a just government. Directly across the square from the National Palace was the Cathedral where Monsignor Juan Gerardi declared guilty numerous military and government officials during the reading of the historic REMHI report, which also included the name of every known victim of every documented massacre or attack. He was bludgeoned in his garage three days later. ¨Presente¨was ringing in my ears.

Of course this is only an abbreviated version of these experiences. It´s only now that I´m beginning to feel I have the proper context and mental grasp of these places and events, and even this country, to process and write about them. Naturally there is so much more I have to say, as this was all just within the first week. Additional entries will come later, but in the meantime I will be seeing and experiencing even more. I thought this journal would end when my time in Guatemala ends, but I understand now that there is a considerable delay in terms of processing and understanding. These are things I´ll be puzzling over and straining to appreciate for months and years. It´s not possible to truly understand 400 plus years of oppression and cultural upheaval in just 12 weeks. I think this blog might end up needing a new name.

Crime Culture in La Brigada

There have been two violent murders within two blocks of my home within the past three weeks. Both victims were young boys, 12 and 16, and were both involved in local gangs. Both took place in the morning on a Saturday, and I unknowingly came upon each crime scene only minutes after the crowd had started to gather. I had never seen the dead body of a child before, and honestly I never imagined a situation in which I would. The first boy was wearing high top sneakers, which were poking out from beneath the small green blanket with which his body was covered. His ankles were so thin. I didn't even understand what I was looking at at first. By the time we encountered the second two weeks later, I didn't look.

The first one was gone in one shot that we heard that morning as we were getting ready to leave for a day downtown. The second was the same, but he had scrambled into a local shop hoping for sanctuary. Both were close range. The odd thing is how disaffected the community is. Within moments a crowd gathers within inches of the corpse to see what's happening, and most people know exactly who was holding the gun. The police take their time, even though the station is literally five blocks away. Only 3 out of 100 murders are ever even investigated in Guatemala City, .05% are solved.

Strangely enough, I don't feel scared to be here, but I do feel that I've been living under a false sense of security. I understand the desire of my program coordinators and my host family not to scare me, but no information or suggestions were ever given in terms of safety and security other than never take your eyes off your bag and don't flash your cash. We've been told that because we're not involved in any gangs we don't have much to worry about, except of course getting caught in a crossfire. Oddly enough it seems as though the killers take care not to get anyone else involved. The murders are generally very close range, early in the morning before the streets are full, and bystanders are not targeted, how nice of them.

These experiences have started me thinking about the amazing contrasts we've experienced here in Guatemala. On the day we encountered the first murder, we were leaving our extremely poor - in money, resources, and representation- neighborhood to have lunch downtown in the posh, very westernized Zona Viva neighborhood in the heart of the city. On the day we came upon the second, we were on our way to spend a quick weekend in the touristy, colonial city of Antigua because we were craving a certain restaurant. On the day we came back from a women's cooperative in Chichicastenango in which bullet holes are still visible in the walls, we went straight to the national theatre to see an opera with the Guatemalan elite, and sat across from President Alvaro Colom.

Although we are part of this place, we don't exactly factor in, if that even makes sense. We tell ourselves that this is our home for two months and try and act as though we belong here, but none of us can understand it and truly know it. We're peripheral. However, I don't think any of us have gone in with a grandiose plan to change the world starting with the community hosting us. We're pretty well set in reality and recognize that observation and understanding is better than service and western-ways evangelism. One thing I can say for this program is that I feel I have a deeper, more realistic understanding of what Guatemala is at this moment than any of the travelers I have met along the way. This post probably seems pretty disjointed, but when I think about these murders, the true face of my neighborhood, the silence of my program directors, the possible fate of my two little host brothers, and the two socio-economic extremes of Guatemala City, I can't help but feel scattered.

A Typical Day

After almost six weeks in the city, we CASAS students have developed a pretty regular daily routine. Even though I use the word regular, there are generally plenty of things that happen on a daily basis to remind me that this experience is like no other in my life thus far.

I have stopped waking up with the roosters and firecrackers, and now drag myself out of bed a few minutes after six. Learning a new language takes more mental energy than I ever could have imagined! If there is water available I shower, but if not I use the cold water out of a large basin in my family´s partially exposed sink area. My mother usually has a simple breakfast of beans, eggs, and sometimes pancakes ready for me at six thirty. After picking up the other students in my area, we are lucky to catch a factory bus a little after seven. I say lucky because when we first board the bus it is packed to the ceiling, but five blocks down the street the entire bus will empty as almost everyone on these morning buses is an employee of one of the large ¨fabricas¨in the neighborhood. After that we´re able to enjoy our own seats, which is lucky because we generally ride bus number 1 for about 40 minutes. We catch the second bus around 8 and get to CASAS around eight thirty, just in time for our first session of morning classes.

During class, Fjaere and I practice new vocabulary, reflexive verbs, indirect objects, and other grammar with our teacher Abigail. Although I'm not a huge fan of her teaching style, we get to do fun things like take trips around the city, watch movies, play games, cook, etc...all in Spanish of course. We eat lunch on site at the school after four hours of Spanish instruction. It's wonderful because everything is made from scratch on site, and we get delicious, fresh corn tortillas with almost every meal. I've really grown to love those things.

Afternoons are spent with the 9 other CASAS students either catching up in internet cafes, exploring the city, or taking little field trips to places like women´s cooperatives, museums, forensic anthropology centers, and other sites of cultural or historical importance. It´s one of my favorite parts of the program, and I feel I´m getting a very well-rounded idea of the current state of affairs in Guatemala. This program is geared almost specifically toward college students earning college credit, which sadly doesn´t apply to me at all. I think if I could do it over again I would have selected a more flexible program.

We catch the bus home around 4 or 5 in the afternoon and are lucky to get home about an hour later. I spend about an hour hanging out in the small living room of my family´s home doing homework with my little brothers. My mom usually has dinner ready around 7, and I´m generally famished. During dinner I pretty much just sit by while my family talks to each other at warp speed, but honestly after a long day of trying to speak Spanish my brain is fried. Sometimes we watch TV after dinner, usually the Guatemalan equivalent of E! or telenovelas. It´s actually really good for practice and learning sentence structure. After that it´s bedtime. Being here has kind of turned me into an old woman. Come 9 pm I can´t wait to crawl into bed. I barely even have those minutes to lay in bed and consider the day and the one to come before I´m out until 6 am.

I´m horrible at Blogging!

Wow, I didn´t realize I had let this thing go so long already! I have a lot to catch up on naturally, but I promise I´ll try and be succinct! Thanks for anyone out there who is reading!

First off, my new Guatemalan family! I have been living with the Gomez Gil family for the past four weeks, and have enjoyed it very much. I have two little brothers, David, who is eight and Pablo, who is 13. It´s really fun to be around kids again, it´s been a long time since I´ve had a ¨little¨brother around. My mother, Rosario, is very generous and extremely patient with me and my not so fabulous Spanish. We have breakfast together every morning and talk about the day ahead, and chat again when I get home. Luckily she´s had enough students in the past to know speaking slowly is absolutely essential. I rarely have to ask her to slow down or repeat anything. She also has an amazing knack for popping into the kitchen and pulling amazing meals out of thin air. She´s kept me on a diet of chicken, black beans in various forms, rice, tomatos, onions, a little beef or pork, bread and tortillas for the past four weeks and every meal is delicious and unique. My father, Jorge, is usually gone at work by the time I get up, he´s a mason and carpenter. The first day I was in their home he and I had a big discussion about US building techniques compared to Guatemalan, which was prevalent because they are also in the process of building an addition onto their home. I was secretly thrilled with myself for being able to carry on a conversation that long about something so random.

My little brothers are also nice to have around, especially in terms of my Spanish practice. They always point out when I say something incorrectly or misconjugate, which is great because it´s always in a very benign, sweet sort of way. We usually spend the evenings painting together, hanging out around the dinner table, practicing their English, or playing marbles. They are a very tight-knit family, and very religious. My parents spend an average of four nights a week at church and are also song leaders.

The home itself is small and my parents sleep in a corner of the family room, but it´s more than adequate for four or five people. My room is up some exposed stairs on the roof level, which I love! It´s defintely the nicest room in the house, which makes me feel a little awkward to be honest. My family obviously counts on the supplemental income of taking students from this program. My windows and front door overlook several other homes, and I can look down into the courtyard area of the house next door, where that family´s parrot lives. Between the squawks of the parrot, the bellowing of the dogs, the crowing of the roosters and the 4 am birthday fireworks that are so popular here, I rarely sleep up until my alarm. It´s actually kind of a nice way to wake up to be honest. I feel very safe and cozy in my home, my mother is a wonderful cook, my dad tries his best to make little jokes with me in broken English, and my brothers are a great source of comedic relief. Life at the casa de Gomez Gil is very good.

The Bus System!

Ok, I´m going to try and keep this simple because there are a ton of little details I could include. I´ll try to hold back and not write a novel every time I get on the computer!

First of all, the Guatemala City bus system! As a frequent patron of the Denver city buses I feel like a seasoned rider, but there is no comparison. The city buses are generally old school school bus style, and are in varying degrees of safety and repair. There are established routes, but not exactly established stops. There are always obviously places to load and unload, but if you feel like getting off between designated stops just whistle as loud as you possibly can. We haven´t mastered the whistle just yet. The buses are generally always very crowded, even to the point of people hanging off the back and front. However seats tend to open up quickly with so many people moving en masse.

When we all first arrived in the city we were able to enjoy this crazy, pack ém in like sardines style of transportation, and it was actually a great way to bond with each other. In one instance we made the unfortunate decision of hopping on a bus making scary, death throw kind of sounds. On the way up a small hill, all of a sudden we were rolling backwards gently. The bus driver threw the emergency brake, fiddled with the gears and got her moving forward again. However about 1000 meters down the road the same thing happened. Only this time about half a dozen men jumped off the bus, ran around the back, and actually started pushing the bus uphill! Amazingly it worked. They jumped back on and we were rolling again. A mile later, we´re on an even steeper hill, and we´re not just rolling gently backward, we´re lurching violently backward. At this point all us American kids used to padded seats and safety codes start freaking out, which I´m pretty sure really amused the locals. Our host mom, who was escorting us, made the decision that after the next lurch we all needed to scramble out the door. Naturally the second we made it on the ground, the bus sprang to life and continued rolling along. The native Guatemalans must have gotten a kick out of us. I felt a little foolish, but I was having visions of Guatemalan hospital beds and lost limbs.

That might have been a bit out of the ordinary, but for us thats been a typical bus experience. We were just getting comfortable with the system and where to get on and off, and were actually looking forward to the day our host moms would decide we were capable of riding on our own. However we all woke up two days ago to news that almost all the bus drivers in the city had gone on strike due to the outrageous gas prices and no increase in wages or rates. Currently the state and local government are working with the bus drivers union to try and reach an agreement. This leaves literally tens of thousands of people living on a very fixed income in a very precarious situation. GC is not the kind of metropolitan area where walking great distance is safe or even possible. In addition, taking a taxi to get where you´re going can cost as much as 100 times your bus fare. It makes it nearly impossible for people who live on one side of the city and live on the other to make it on time and not risk losing their job. Theres a lot more I could say about the social justice aspects of this issue, but I´d rather wait for it to play out and see how the gov handles things. Hopefully this matter is dealt with fairly and soon, I really miss the bus!

I made it!

Just wanted to write a quick note saying I made it just fine. The trip was a little stressful due to a delay that left me running for my next flight, but all ended well. I woke up to a lovely Guatemalan morning, it's cloudy, humid and actually very comfortable. The other students seem very nice so far, and I get to meet my host family in less than an hour. I found out they have two young kids, which should be fun. We had a very informal orientation this morning, and I'm feeling pretty relaxed about navigating life around here. However I might feel differently after my first public transportation experience. The food has also been great, and theres an avocado tree in the back garden! We start classes officially tomorrow, and it looks like I'll be studying one on one or with only one other student. The individual attention is pretty impressive, and we get to take lots of field trips! Anyway, thats about all for now. I'll be updating often though. Hope you're all doing well, and thanks for keeping up with me!

10 hours!

Well, almost ready to go!  It's past midnight now and I'm up doing last minute laundry with Dave, who has been nice enough to take me all over Wisconsin showing me the sites.  It seems funny that by tomorrow night I'll be living in Guatemala officially.  Honestly over the past week I've been so preoccupied with what was happening in that exact moment that I haven't had much time to really think about how quickly my departure date was approaching.  It's been a really wonderful week.  I was able to spend some time with family, revisit a few places I love, bbq with college friends, kayak with my little brother, hike with Dave, reconnect with a long lost friend at Brat Fest in Madison, and enjoy lots of very American foods and locally brewed beers.  It definitely feels like a summer vacation.  Part of me is enjoying this week so much I'm almost a little bummed this part of the journey is over, however I know life can't always be like this past few days, and I have a whole new adventure awaiting me.  

I arrive in Guatemala City tomorrow evening around 6:40 after layovers in Chicago and Miami.  Considering my horrible track record with O'Hare, I'm a little nervous about making the connection and am keeping my fingers crossed that everything goes smoothly.  There have already been a few hiccups in the plans because apparently my Guatemalan contact never received the flight information I sent over a month ago, and up until yesterday didn't know when I'd be flying in.  I found it a little odd that she waited so late to let me know this.  When I sent a reply email I received an out of office response instructing me to contact someone else.  I just really hope theres someone waiting to pick me up tomorrow evening!  

All right, on with the laundry.  I'll post more when I'm able!  Wish me luck! 

Wow, yesterday was my last day of work...and it was weird! I actually thought it would just feel like I was leaving for a long weekend or something, but it definitely did not. Three and a half months isn't really that long, but Empowerment could be a very different place to me when I get back. I know there will at least be a couple new people on staff for one, and I'm praying my office doesn't get moved while I'm gone! Plus I know it will take awhile for me to readjust, and there might be a degree of culture shock. For that reason I made sure to give myself a couple weeks between my return to Denver and my return to work. I think that time will be very helpful to settle myself back in. In addition it will allow me to catch up with the first week of school I'll be missing and participate in the Democratic National Convention (which I plan to both protest and volunteer for, I'm still trying to decide if thats hypocritical). Anyway, I didn't think work was something I'd miss. It's probably not the work as much as the people.

Now I'm just running errands all over the place before my subletter moves in for good this afternoon. Thanks to a good morning call from Jared I was up at 7:21, even though I could have easily slept another hour. Thanks buddy. I feel very accomplished already, which is good because the more I think about what needs to be done yet the more overwhelmed I'm getting. I probably shouldn't be blogging when my fridge still needs to be cleaned out, my floors swept, and my bag repacked, but this is a lot more fun than those things :) Wish me luck!