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Published: January 4th 2008
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For those of you who don´t speak French, guatemalade (Guatemala + malade (sick) is a catchy term invented by a friend of mine from Toulouse who had gringa disease every day of her two month stay here. Sadly, my guatemalade days began yesterday at sunset, an hour or so before I was intended to meet up with some authentic Huehuetecos I met through couchsurfing.com. Being sick is for sissies. I told myself, and headed out the door, thinking that if nothing else I could get a tea at the gringo-y coffee shop where the rendez-vous was to take place.
In the café cabana, I met Julio Ramirez, who spoke English as well as I do, and William Mandrake, who spoke none at all. William had also brought his little sister Fleur (I never was able to ask the Mandrake´s about their family nomenclature), who with her tiny frame and wide eyes reminded me of an older Matilda from Roald Dahl´s famous book.
Julio had been living in Oklahoma for the past 7 years, and loved to tell me all about America as if I had never been there before. What was so great about America, he said, is that I fit in there. Here, in Huehuetenango, I walk down the street, and everybody looks at me strangely, as if I had a third arm sticking out from my nose. Ok, so he didn´t add that last part, but it was refreshing to realize that even a native of Huehuetenango felt as awkward in this city as I did.
William and Fleur were lovely. Having spent three months in Switzerland, France and Spain, they understood the estrangement one feels when traveling. We talked about the difference in personal space between the Guatemala and Western countries, and I realized that perhaps part of the malady in adjusting is the constant feeling of claustrophobia. The best example of this are the sidewalks in Huehuetenango. At best, they measure 12 inches across, but manage to hold yours truly and a grandpa pushing an oxcart and holding the hand of a small child. Perhaps one lady among the thousands that have already bumped into me have apologized---not because they are rude, but because everyone understands that pushing up against your neighbor is part of living in Guatemala. Excusing yourself each time you bump into a passerby would be as silly as your eyes apologizing to you each time they blinked.
But I digress. After finishing a second round of cinnamon hot chocolates, Julio insisted we head to a bar. This, he lauded, was the only establishment in Huehuetenago that served real whisky. Thank god, just when I was beginning to wonder why I had come to Guatemala in the first place. We sat down in The Cool Bar, and I marveled at the erratic menu. A gallo (local beer) cost 5 quetzales (about 70cents) but a bottle of even the sketchiest whisky cost 40$. Julio whipped out his wad of American dollars and commanded that waiter bring us a bottle of Johnny Walker Red label. I looked at Fleur with trepidation but she smiled—don’t worry chica, she said, Julio loves to show off his money.
As we sipped on Johnny mixed with pepsi and fresh limes, we started to talk about more serious matters: money, love and dreams. I asked Julio why he continued living in America when all of his family and friends were in Huehuetenango. He looked at me for a moment, sipped his whisky as if he were being interviewed by the press, then responded, you see, I have dreams. I enough money to build the biggest house in Huehuetenango, and then build the second biggest house right next to it so that my mother can live as well as I do. Huge, you know? At least 1 million quetzales, each! I smiled as authentically as I could.
Over the past year at Berkeley, I dedicated much of my non-poetry time to studying migration from Latin America to the United States. But nothing I read, no conversation with my Mexican collegues at work made me understand why latin Americans in California work 100 hour weeks and stay upwards of ten years. I always wondered, if money is worth so much in Latin America, why don´t migrants just stay a year maximum then go home proudly with a couple of thousand dollars? That much money would be more than enough to build a small house here, pay for their sibling´s education, for years and years of tortillas. Yesterday, I began to understand that when Guatemalans go to America and see the abundance of material wealth, their goals change. Suddenly, they want to live like an American, meaning that when they return to Guatemala, they want to live like a monarch. To quote Julio, I learned in America that I can have anything, so why would I drink crappy gallo beer when I can buy whisky on half an hour´s salary in America?
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