mateana

It is mid-October now, the nadir of winter in San Mateo. Outside it's chilly. Inside, it's glacial. I've learned to appreciate many things this year: butter, fixed prices and most recently, indoor heating. Houses here aren't even insulated. For most families, this isn't a problem because they cook on wood fire stoves. These keep their kitchens relatively warm; indeed, most Mateanos spend the winter quite cozily huddled around the horizontal hearth. But our house has a gas stove. This, even when lit at 300'C and with the door ajar, keeps our house as comfortable as barracks in a Siberian labor camp. Which wouldn't be so bad if we could just go outside. But winter in San Mateo, means non-stop rain, and I'm not talking about the cute kind. This is torrential rain. Rain that makes ... read more

The long and the corte I came to San Mateo on the 5th of January, not that it matters. Exact dates, in San Mateo, are as insignificant as styles of women’s pants. Here, jeans, pajamas, velvet britches—just pants. Upon arrival, I felt the same way about Cortes, the curtain like “skirts” within which Mateanas hid their legs. They all looked like cylindrical boxes splattered with too many colors. I had taken too many anthropology classes to condemn the Corte, but I couldn’t help wondering why women continued to wear them while Mayan men had traded their traditional striped trousers for jeans long ago. Were Cortes were more economical? Definitely not. I found out later that Mateanas spent upwards of 500Q (80$) on each of their shrouds. A monthly wage squandered on each Corte? And most ... read more

Almost new moon On the stoop, the little thing, playing with the knobs on her lower back; the almost bones, they kept her from the crescent moon. In time enough, the wind would scatter enough dust past the scene for her to go inside, inside where it was safe enough to remove her sweater yet dank she wouldn’t wish to. So were the heavens overrated?— It had been days since she had seen sign of them, no mist, not between the dreams that came sometime between suppers. Since only darkness allowed for solitude, her fetal body would nuzzle up to the electric fire, to the block words spinning images, black and white pictures across the screen. How could she read the subtitles— those cat claws underlining her daydream, herself in the space each evening before ... read more

Friday, I taught the worst class of my life. I hope. No, I’m pretty sure that nothing could top those 90 minutes. First, my arrival, 5 minutes late, followed by explaining to the guffawing faces that for the next 10 minutes, while I finished making photocopies, they should finish their homework, or talk to their neighbor, or erg. I ran out, sacar-ed my photocopias, then came back an explosion. “Shush!” I yelled, commanding as much authority as a disabled flea, then begged them to take their seats. A couple of them did. The rest yelled out “RUINAS!! RUINAS!!” Going down to the Mayan ruins, which also serves as a soccer field and not so secret make out spot, is what every class wants to do. I usually give in, because lets face it, I also ... read more

Yesterday, my housemate Becca and I biked to Barillas, the nearest city to San mateo which is roughly 30km away. Our journey, was possible thanks to our recent paycheck, which allowed us, at only 875 quetzales (around 120$) to purchase brand new Maya Tour bicycles. The town gaped. Perhaps more than usual. Bicycles are extravangant, roughly the equivalent of a shopkeeper’s monthly salary. But with a name like that, I was at least supporting the local economy, right? Sadly, I learned 12 hours later, by way of a middle aged Mateano, that the bikes were actually made in Korea. The Maya Tour brand was created in Guatemala City where some wealthy man plastered the shining metal with deceiving decals. Our motto for the trip was Barillas or Bust. And we accomplished both. We left at 9, ... read more

Yesterday morning, during my 12th grade Literature class, Julio, the director, burst in to tell us one of younger students’ parents had died. “School will be canceled for the rest of the day,” he announced. This, I assumed was to show our respect for the mourning adolescent. I put on my most solemn pout. And wrong again. Why had the students begun to cheer? “You hate literature that much?” I asked them. “No seño.” they lied. “It’s just, you see, that a dead person died. He’s dead you see, that dead man.” It quickly became clear that this was the joke of choice on death days. Everyone found it hilarious, despite the fact they all had heard it thousands of times prior. Yet strangely, after hearing it repeated enough, I found myself laughing too. Maybe ... read more

This fall, when I reluctantly explained the details of my job in Guatemala, an unpleasantly large handful of people who I admire very much looked worried. “So as a new teacher, you’re going to be writing your own lesson plans and speaking in your third language?” Guilty? But then, most of these people are frightened no matter what I do. You’re biking to Greece? You want to be a poet? You’re chopping your hair off? (Ok I never forewarned anyone I was doing that but it would have elicited that same gawk of empathetic terror). I told myself that everyone was overreacting, as always. Teaching was just sharing knowledge with friends, right? Apparently not. My friends, at least, don’t usually run away to buy bargain phone cards if I’m talking to them about rural Colombian history. ... read more

This evening, at the Fundación Ixtatán (our office and apartment), we had makeshift “fiesta” numero dos. The inebriated teachers left even earlier this time. Somewhere between 7 or 8. The exact time I can’t tell you, because I no longer keep my cell phone in my pocket. I no longer do a lot of things I did last week. I no longer am bothered by the hour and a half I spend wandering from tienda to tienda, stalling at each one for small talk with the owner, in order to find our the one that has our favorite brand of green salsa in stock. I no longer stare at the dogs that mate up against our front door. Before stepping inside, I just nudge them towards the Kuxa men decaying on the stoop. Why would I ... read more

Not having a washing machine is no big deal. I had already 6 months of my life without one, that is, if you were to add up each week I was backpacking, farming, at a soccer tournament or a biking escapade. The difference, I suppose, was that each of those weeks, I either brought enough clothes along so that I never had to wash anything. I would just become progressively grimier and grimier yet would always miss that sordid climax which would have come an hour or so after I dumped my sweaty mess into the magic machine. That climax, dear friends, I reached this morning. My clothes were vile, and thus, I was vile, and all the Chujs in the world could never change that. This was the moment I had dreaded since January 1st—the ... read more

A couple of days ago, we decided that we had been drinking too much tea, and too little kusha (the local corn based alcohol). It was time for a fiesta. We decided to invite over all the teachers and everyone else in town that never “!Gringo!”-ed when we walked by. It would be epic. I spent half the afternoon deciding what I would wear, finally deciding on my finest non-skimpy shirt, a pair of freshly washed jeans, and even a bit of makeup (yes you heard that right). We had invited the teachers over at 7. They came at 6 (does siete means 6 in Chuj?) Because of their premature arrival, we hadn’t yet bought the alcohol, so we decided to make it a group excursion. While leaving the house, I realized that I hadn’t ... read more