Liz and Ron

If San Miguel is all about sol (sun), Guanjuato is more about sombra (shade). This is not because the skies are cloudy, but more a description of mood, history and geography. Its chiaroscuro streets and enticing alleyways remind me of other places all at once, and I struggle to remember where and to fit the pieces together. Meanwhile, Lorena, our Mexican property manager, settles us in and offers her services as a tour guide. We warm to her immediately. She is lanky and handsome, and laughs easily. Like obedient ducklings, we follow behind as she rushes ahead, her mannish blue jeans riding high on her long legs. She sluices us through the cool stone labyrinth of underground roadways in her battered VW, swearing at the slower drivers. “Cheesus Christ!” she grumbles, as if barrelling through the ... read more

On the plane down to Mexico, Natalie brought up the subject of mice. The day before, she had found one streaking across her kitchen floor. This led to an exchange of mouse stories - recent sightings, methods of eradication, the amount and extent of their droppings - each of us determined to out-poo the other. Ron was unusually quiet but he had a lot to contribute, and I knew it. What could he be hiding? Over the next few days, I tried to get it out of him but he refused to share. I prodded and prodded and finally he broke. And now that he did, I wish that he hadn't. You see, like most people, I pride myself on being healthy. Country life promotes it and - some might say- demands it. The air is ... read more

Thursday, March 17 I wake up just before daybreak. I imagine that I am a child again, waking to the mournful sound of a Vancouver foghorn. I fall back into a restless sleep, and this time imagine that I am living in a small town in northern Israel, listening to the Arab junk dealers coming down the lane. "Alterzachen!" they call out in Yiddish, which is pretty funny, if you stop to think about it. Loosely translated, this means "old things", and it makes me smile to think of Arabs calling out in Yiddish to an Israeli population. Stuff like that never makes the evening news. Third time around, I remember that I am in Guatemala, and I haul myself out bed to see what the racket is all about. The women that work in the ... read more

Sunday, March 13 San Juan Sacatapequez is interesting, a kind thing to say about any unlovely town. Seen from the window of a moving bus, the morning mist just burned away, the flower market is its obvious centrepiece. All the extravagant beauties - the lilies, chrysanthemums, gladiolas, Brazilian torches, sunflowers, heliconia - spill out of wicker baskets or are crammed into bins, a riot of colour. The only sight more colourful is the women themselves, selling their wares from makeshift stalls or while seated on plastic camping stools. Along the arcade, trestle tables display red and green chilis, hearts of palm, sliced mangoes and maize. An iguana stew bubbles inside a turquoise crockpot. From a painted doorway, an old woman, her wrinkled lips clamped around a lollipop, peeks her head out. Each shack shares a wall ... read more

"You're going where?" a neighbour asked. I told her Guatemala, then added, "on a surgical trip." Further explanation could have followed, and should have, but I was tired of talking. I wasn't in the mood. With one week to go, my mind was on other things, like packing, and I felt I owed it to myself to give the minimum response. Also niggling at me was the sense that people do not necessarily care about my life-changing experiences, even if this time I have been given the opportunity to do a job that is meaningful, attached to hard work and risk, and disconnected to things. To be honest, I don't blame them. Why should we get all excited about someone else's adventures, really? I'm as guilty of this as anyone else. Recently, I was handed a ... read more