Times I said the F-word while hiking the Inka Trail

In my head, out loud, in frustration, in awe - I bring you a complete compilation.
1. When I registered that I would be spending the next 96 hours straight eating and sleeping and hiking and living with my family (what can I say, I'm 18).
2. When I maintained a 45 minute conversation in Spanish with our guide about the history of the Inkas - and then he complimented my grammar.
3. Halfway up the first hill at an altitude of 3000 meters (9800 feet)
4. At 1:10pm on the first day when we feasted on vegetable soup, chicken with aji, rice, fresh bread, and coca tea.
5. When we started hiking again after the feast.
6. Lying down for a two hour nap after arriving at our campsite.
7. Returning to the tent after going to the bathroom and my brother had taken off his hiking boots.
8. The first sip of hot tea at 5:30 in the morning.
9. Two hours into one of the steepest uphill hikes I've done, and the guide saying we're almost halfway up.
10. When we arrived at the top of the pass (13,800 ft) and I swore I could see the entire Andes mountain range.
11. When my knees shook the whole way down the pass.
12. Arriving at our campsite at noon.
13. When I lost Presidents, the card game, after being president 6 rounds straight. And my whole family cheered.
14. Standing on top of the ruins of Phuyupatamarka, a fortress pressed into the mountainside with hidden stairways, ceremonial baths, and watchtowers, without another tourist in sight.
15. When someone shook our tent at 3:00am to tell us it was time to wake up - and it was pouring rain.
16. Descending hundreds of Inka-made stone steps under the light of a headlamp. Still in the pouring rain.
17. Shining my flashlight upward to find ruins towering eerily and magnificently above me.
18. Arriving at Sun Gate after 4 hours of hiking and catching my first glimpse of Machu Picchu.
19. Knowing that I was finally done hiking.
20. When my mom reminded us that we had passes to hike Waynapicchu, another hour-long hike straight up to the top of the small mountain overlooking Machu Picchu.
21. When we beasted it to the top in 25 minutes, and for a moment were on top of the world.
22. When I got on the train back to Cusco and slept the whole way.
23. When I looked back through the pictures I had taken and realized what I had just experienced.

Lost: mind

Today my mind left my body. Seriously. And it was weird.

I was in San Marcos La Laguna, the spiritual capital of Central America, participating in my fifth ever yoga class. My yoga teacher, who had been in Guatemala for two months practicing Tai Chi, was an expert. The class was supposedly for beginners. I was definitely a beginner. Maybe my teacher got confused. Or maybe I'm just that inflexible and uncoordinated. But during my 9am yoga class for beginners, I don't think my mind just drifted out of my body. I'm fairly certain that it ran full speed straight the hell out of that place, giving my muscles the finger in a "See ya later, suckers!" sort of jerk move.

It's funny how every bone in your body can be shaking for an hour and a half straight, your lungs gasping between ribs twisted around each other, your hips pressing into tissues that you didn't know were there, and yet you can be so at peace. Maybe this is the effect of the mind having hopped on the next train to California. The empty body that doesn't register pain as pain or loss of breath as an emergency. A mosaic of organs that simply exists through the seconds and minutes and hours, that breaths the air and listens to the wind but doesn't feel the cold as it licks at the skin. A body that collapses on the mat after 90 minutes have passed, a body that has finished its job and would rather just stay right here and not get up for the rest of eternity, thank you very much.

My mind didn't return until my yoga teacher asked me to retrieve it. It took some seconds of searching and then some seconds of getting it to stick back on. Maybe this was how Peter Pan felt as he chased his shadow. But Wendy wasn't here to sew me up and send me on my way. Finally, I felt that my mind had attached itself to where it belonged. To this heavy and awkward, food-consuming, air-sucking body. For a second, I was completely conscious of myself. I said to my mind (or my mind said to me), let's leave! Let's leave this piece of cargo behind and fly to the Bahamas! Or we can just float across the ocean forever and watch the seagulls dive--oh, what a life we have ahead of us! And I said yes, let's go! And I prepared to follow my spirit to the edge of the world and back again.

As my mind took its first step, my foot tensed. When it turned its head, my neck flexed. Now my fingers were wiggling and I was crinkling my nose and ruffling my forehead and wondering what was happening. And then I felt a rush of understanding.

I wasn't going anywhere without this piece of cargo. I wasn't going to fly above oceans and leave my body resting on the yoga mat in San Marcos. Instead, I lifted my hand and put it on my chest. I felt my body's weight against the ground as Earth's gravity heald me in one piece. A network of roots held me firm against the ground, made stable each step, cradled my resting head. I was ready to follow my spirit to the edge of the world and back again. And I had feet to do it.

I'm glad it's back--my mind. I need it, and I'm beginning to think that it needs me too. But I encourage each of you, if ever you're presented with a similar opportunity to push your body and mind to its limits, do it. And see where each ends up.

This is what I do.

When I began my first day of work three months ago, my only goal was survival. I arrived at 8am and survived until 5pm. Everyone around me spoke Spanish. They knew exactly what they were supposed to do at any given moment. They knew how the hot water machine worked, and they knew which computers sometimes crashed unexpectedly.

I didn't.

It was sink or swim, and every correct Spanish phrase that I spoke propelled me toward the surface. Everything I wanted to say, every "Can I use this desk?" and "Should I be at that meeting?" and "Who is Olga Mendoza?" that got lodged in my throat and couldn't escape past my petrified tongue - these tied themselves to my ankles and pulled me deeper underwater. 

Today is the day that I look back on my time with Starfish and am able to say the words, "Three months ago..." Today, when I mix up my words or need to act out ideas during coordinator meetings, my colleagues smile and encourage me as they shout out guesses to my charades. When I come into the office, I can sit down and have a meaningful conversation with Marilena about her weekend. Norma, the in-country director and I, lovingly poke fun at each other in between hugs. I'm not treading water today. I'm held on the surface by the raft created by my new family: the staff at Starfish One by One. Today, I see the work that I do every day as my work. Work that is meaningful, and work that wouldn't be done if I wasn't doing it. I come into the office with goals other than survival.

My mom came to work with me yesterday. At the end of the day, she told me that she finally understood what I was doing every day. It was then that I realized that no one who's known me for more than 12 weeks really knows what I do from 8:00-5:00. So here it is.

Some days I sit at a desk for 4 hours in the morning and 4 hours in the afternoon. I send emails and make reservations for visitors. 

Some days I take a speed boat across Lake Atitlán to Santiago to interview students or ask a question to a mentor who hasn't responded to my emails. When I conduct interviews, I have the privilege of sitting one-on-one with a young woman (sometimes as old as I am) and hearing her story. And then I get to write about it so that others can hear it, too.

Some days I take a chicken bus to Sololá and observe a mentor group. We play games with balloons and dancing, and do vocal empowerment exercises that involve yelling and doing the wave. I take pictures and put them on Facebook with captions that don't do justice to the empowerment I've witnessed.

Some days I sit at a desk for 4 hours in the morning and write a blog post, and then send emails for 4 hours in the afternoon. The blog post is one of the most beautiful things I've written because it allows people far away to experience the magic that I experience every day.

Some days I go to Antigua to meet groups of donors, then bring them back to Panajachel. I go out to dinner with them and other Starfish staff, and translate riveting conversations.

Some days I have to facilitate the conversations, too, when visitors aren't as excited as I hoped they'd be to meet the men and women who are breaking the cycle of poverty in Guatemala.

Some days I translate meetings between important people who are making important changes to the organization. Some days I'm able to share my ideas too, and some days they are used.

Some days I take groups of visitors on the same speed boat across the lake to Santiago. We observe a mentor group and do silly games with balloons and dancing and act silly as we practice our vocal empowerment. I translate question and answer sessions as donors begin to uncover more about the young women they are supporting, and as these young women learn more about the people who gave their time to come visit them.

These same days, I take the group of visitors in the back of a pick-up truck to visit the home of one of the girls in the program. We stand in a circle with the family and say our names and how we're feeling (and we're not allowed to just say "bien"). We play more silly games. We learn how to make tortillas, and we share a meal with the family. I've gotten pretty good at making tortillas, so sometimes the girls let me flip them on the stove. I translate a question and answer session at the end. I've gotten better at understanding people when they're talking through tears.

Some days I see a group of Starfish's Girl Pioneers on the bus, and we hug each other and greet each other by name. They ask me when I'm coming back up to Sololá, and I don't tell them that this is my last week working for Starfish.

Today is my last day in the office. Tomorrow I'll take the boat to Santiago one last time to meet up with the rest of the staff at the staff retreat. It'll make it easier for us when I tell people that I'm definitely coming back soon. Because that's what people do. When they find what they're meant to be doing in life, they come back and they do it.

The Wanderer's Thanksgiving Table

On the last Thursday of every November, families all across the U.S. come together to share their love and gratefulness for each other. Children play in the autumn leaves and, if snowfall is generous that year, are finally able to drag their sleds out of storage. Aunts and uncles and grandparents share cutting boards to save counter space; six different oven timers are set for seven different times, and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving plays at low volume in the living room. At 4pm the turkey comes out of the oven, and all sit down to a feast. The evening progresses with reminisces, wine, sugar coated passive-aggressive comments about the upcoming election and a sibling's career choice, children sneaking finger dips into the whipped cream, and a dog fight or two over food dropped under the table. At nightfall, family members struggle to swallow their last bite of pie before succumbing to the food coma on the couch and peacefully drifting off to sleep, as another Thanksgiving has come to a nearly vomit-free close.

Meanwhile, all across the world, travelers and expats awake on Thanksgiving day to no festive music on the radio. They go to work, where there is no holiday for which to give a day off. No giant inflatable turkeys are displayed in windows. People on the street go about their normal business.

But on my walk to work on November 28th, a fellow gringo who I have hardly just met shouts "Happy Thanksgiving!" to me from across the street. A gust of wind throws over a few umbrellas and leaves are ripped off of the trees, cutting my face as they fall and filling my body with the warmth of reminiscing of Colorado's autumn leaves. On the way home, I walk by a sign, written in English, advertising turkey that my traveler's budget can't afford. I pass the sign and head towards the market, where I buy two chickens instead.

Elizabeth says, "Show all your Facebook friends how gross
the inside of this raw chicken is!"

My roommate Kayla and I start cooking around 4:00, having left work "early" to prepare for our Thanksgiving feast. Celine and Cecile, Chilean and French travelers whom my roommates met in Mexico, help us whip the egg whites until stiff (which, without an automatic whisk, takes three people switching off). Elizabeth, my fellow Starfish volunteer, arrives a little after 5:00 with our new friend Angus and his coworker, Erin. They arrange a cheese platter and pour glasses of Chilean wine (real cheese is a monthly treat). Patrick, my second roommate, comes home at 5:30 and we begin to prepare the chickens. Angus whips up a mind-blowing stuffing from baguette scraps, some cooked veggies, garlic, and chicken soup powder. The chicken goes in the oven at 6:30, just as Allison, another volunteer, and Leif, a world traveler spending some time in Guatemala, walk in the door.

Candles and one-eyed turkeys provide
our Thanksgiving ambiance.

We set the table for 11. This involves combining our dining room table with one of our desks, bringing in the plastic chairs from the backyard, and interspersing four barstools (where we would make the shorter people sit). We are able to scavenge six candles from around the house. Elizabeth and I have made turkeys out of toilet paper rolls and construction paper at a Thanksgiving craft party for 3-6 year olds; they now act as center pieces.

At 8:00 p.m., the chickens come out of the oven. Angus elegantly carves them onto a cutting board (which he is sharing with Patrick to save counter space). Cranberry sauce, stuffing, vegetables, mashed potatoes, and guacamole (a Celine and Cecile specialty) line the table. And we take our seats - one big, strange, international, and jolly family - in our chairs of varying heights, as Prince Royce plays at low volume in the living room.

Clockwise, starting from far left: Angus (pretend adult), Patrick (snowboarder with a degree in international economics), Eliza (fake-it-till-I-make-it travel expert), Elizabeth (tour guide who went to art school), Erin (real grownup), Celine (Chilean slowly heading home), Cecile (French with no known destination), Leif (run-away travel blogger), Allison (designer with great Vietnamese accent). Photographer: Kayla (professional short-term employee)

(vol-uh n-teer), a definition

Dictionary.com gives the following definition:

volunteer (vol-uh n-teer)

1. a person who performs a service willingly and without pay.

2. a plant that grows from a seed that has not been deliberately sown.


Eliza Stein gives the following definition:

volunteer (vol-uh n-teer)

1. a great excuse to give children trying to sell you bookmarks on the street. Sorry Salvador, I'm a volunteer. I can't afford to buy anything from you today.

2. a way to feel  productive throughout the most unproductive stages of life.

3. a job in which no one really tells you what to do. Ever.

4. a destination to travel to.

5. the person seen walking in the rain without an umbrella because a) you can't afford an umbrella or b) you can't afford to pay 65 cents for a taxi.

6. an excuse to leave work early. It's okay, I'm just a volunteer.

7. a reason to stay and work late. I should really get this done; after all, the reason I'm here is to volunteer.

8. a method of experimenting with possible career paths, for those looking for an epiphany. Usually results in minimal epiphanies and maximum financial distress.

9. a social circle that continually blows your mind by the experiences and motivations of your peers. And how hard they can go on a Tuesday night.

10. the one who sometimes goes by Alyssa or Elizabeth with donors whose memories are especially shot.

11. the reason why you can't afford to buy cheese.

12. carrying a moral baggage that is knee-bucklingly, back-breakingly heavy. You are here for the sole purpose to serve. You are here to contribute every last drop of sweat and every last tear that you have because that's one last drop that is sucked from someone else's body.

13. a plant that grows from a seed that has not been deliberately sown.

For My Dad

When I was eight years old, my dad and I built a Harry Potter castle. It was approximately 30 square feet with four walls sponge painted to represent bricks, and it had a tower coming off the top right corner. It had a ceiling, on top of which we put a mattress (with Harry Potter sheets), and it was here that I spent so many nights of my youth. Until, of course, I needed more space for my Harry Potter Lego sets, at which time we removed the mattress and I set up my mystical world on top of my own little castle pushed into a corner in my basement.

The summer after our major construction endeavor, my dad took me on a "backpacking trip" (our trip involved one night of camping and a total hike of about 4 miles over the course of two days, thus my use of quotation marks). As we were hiking in, my alien pack pulled me backwards into a mountain spring, and by the time we reached our campsite it was snowing. I curled up in my sleeping bag, the tent sheltering me from the downpour of rain and snow and sleet, while my dad made hot chocolate and spaghetti outside.

My junior year of high school I became a hipster. Each night of Hanukkah that year, I unwrapped a different series of bicycle parts that my dad had scavenged from garage sales and bike shops around Denver. Together, we built a fixed gear bicycle with bright blue wheels and streamers coming off the handlebars. Today, this bike is my second most prized possession (the first is my backpacking pack, of course).

That same winter, my dad coached my cross-country ski team every Sunday and took me alpine skiing every Saturday. In his twenties, he coached one of the best youth Nordic teams in Colorado, and that winter he told me that he saw great potential for my cross-country skiing future. I told him that I was burnt out from skiing and I didn't want to do it anymore. He understood.

Jump to November 2nd, 2013 - Panajachel, Guatemala. That Saturday, I visited the home of one of the students enrolled in the Starfish program. We made lunch with the family and talked to them about how things were going for them. The family was in the process of building another house behind their current house. The new house had concrete floors, cinder block walls, and electricity, but the doors and windows hadn't been installed yet. The father of the home told us that he was building the house with his daughter, who is in her sophomore year of high school. He works in the fields six days a week, and on Sundays, they build. It is a very rare sight in Guatemala to see a girl doing manual labor alongside her father, as opposed to staying at home and cooking for him when he returns from work. This was a testament to how much he believed in his daughter, in her capabilities, and how little of a difference he saw in boys and girls - both are capable of the same achievements.

After leaving the home, my Starfish colleague told me that this father was an alcoholic. The reason that his daughter was enrolled in Starfish was because he spent most of the family's earnings on alcohol. At one point he pulled her out of the program to have her sell tortillas in Antigua, but the Starfish staff fought to get her back. Today, construction on the house is on pause until they can get another loan to keep building.

Ten years ago, sitting on top of my Harry Potter castle playing with Legos in my basement, I was queen of my own universe - maybe I couldn't control everything, but I sure as hell could control whether Ron Weasley went down to the Chamber of Secrets and won his battle against the serpent. Backpacking through the Rocky Mountains, carrying on my back everything I needed to keep me alive (even just for the next 24 hours), I knew that I could do anything. And building a bicycle from scratch, I learned to trust my own two hands.

Which brings me to the Harry Potter castle complex. There have been numerous times throughout my life when I felt completely helpless, even lacking control over Lego Ron Weasley. But not in that castle. There have been many times when I knew with 100% certainty that I couldn't do something, or that my own two hands weren't good enough. But not when I was with my dad. Because the two of us could move mountains.

I've been thinking a lot about the Starfish family that I met this weekend, mostly about how to make sense of what I learned. And I haven't come to many firm conclusions. But I do know that there are few things stronger that a father's love, and that father's love for his daughter was strong enough to build a house, a Harry Potter castle of their own, to support his entire family. It was strong enough to get her enrolled in Starfish and support her throughout secondary school and beyond, even when his neighbors criticized him for wasting money on his daughter's education. And maybe there were times outside of that Harry Potter castle that their steps were shaky, and their paths a bit more uncertain. But together, building that house, their own castle, it is very possible that they, too, could move mountains.

Dad, I owe who I am to you. Thank you.

Stay tuned, mom. Yours is coming soon.

The Chicken Bus Lullaby

Four hour bus rides can seem long. Especially when they actually end up being six hour bus rides. Because there is no direct route anywhere, here in Guatemala.

Sometimes all you want to do is sleep. You caught the 5:30 a.m. bus and the wind is blowing in through the window, making your eyes even more tired, but each time you begin to drift off to sleep you have to catch your head before it accidentally falls on the shoulder of the man sitting next to you. And each time the bus rounds a corner you must grip the seat in front of you with all of your strength so that you aren't hurled into the aisle, because you are currently resting half a butt cheek on the school bus seat originally meant for two petite children's bottoms, not the three full-grown adults who now sit squished against each other.

At each stop, more people pile on the bus. Soon, in addition to sitting three per seat, there are people standing in the aisle. It begins to rain, and immediately all of the windows are shut. The air in the bus is now stagnant. A man with a good sized gut squeezes into the aisle next to you. His back is pressed against the side of your face; you relax your neck and let your head rest. A women moves into the space in front of him, her long, curly, sweet-smelling hair brushing your face. It covers the body odor that hangs in the air.

It isn't long before the gentle rocking of the bus, the warm cushion supporting your head, and the sweet smell of lavender shampoo lull you off to sleep.

Scaling the Volcano

About a week ago, Norma, Starfish's in-country director, described the Starfish journey as climbing a volcano. I agreed with her enthusiastically. Mountain-climbing seemed to me like the go-to metaphor for challenge. Not even a metaphor anymore, considering how often we use it in our day-to-day conversations. And so I was hardly paying attention when she continued the analogy: a steady, difficult ascent, with the ultimate and hardest challenge presenting itself in the final stretch to the top.

Sure, we've all heard it before. And it is for that precise reason that many of us haven't taken the time to truly understand it. This past weekend, I finally understood. On Sunday, I climbed a real life volcano.

I left for San Pedro on Saturday evening with four other volunteers living in Panajachel. As the motorboat sped away from Pana into the sunset, we reveled in the idea that when the sun peeked out from behind the mountains the next morning, we would be seeing it from the top of Volcán San Pedro. We arrived in town around dinner time, carbo-loaded, and hit the hay early to rest up before our little sunrise hike.

It was 3:30 a.m. when we began climbing the volcano. It was dark and humid, and my headlamp matted my hair with sweat as I hiked upward into the wee hours of the morning. I looked down on the town of San Pedro, and saw just what I expected to see: stillness. Sleep. I hiked on.

We stopped for breakfast a little before five, resting our sleep-deprived bodies on benches that had been built just a few years ago, when the volcano was officially made into an Ecological Park. A map nearby told us that we were almost halfway. After scarfing down some crackers and chunks of banana bread, we were on our way. We had a schedule to keep, after all.

Soon, a glow began to spread across the horizon. It was almost 6:00 a.m. when I turned off my headlamp and stowed it in my backpack. We were almost running. We didn't know how far we were from the top, but there was one thing we did know for sure: we weren't there yet. And the sun had no intention of waiting for us. I didn't look at my watch when we reached the top, so I have no idea how long we half-ran for. But for the last stretch of the climb, I was in pain. My lungs burned as they struggled to keep up with the quickly changing elevation. My legs protested with every step upward. My right ankle stung each time it rubbed against a rock that had lodged itself inside my boot, which I had no time to stop and remove.

When the trail began to level out and we looked up and saw sky instead of trees, rays of light were streaming in through the fog. We made our way towards a pile of boulders, where we set down our packs and turned to gaze out at the lake. For a few minutes, all we saw was fog. No one spoke during that first moment. Then the clouds in front of us began rushing over our heads, condensing in our hair. We held our breath. And there it was. First the skyline, the clouds in the distance hanging at eye level. Then the mountains, painted with early morning shadows. Finally, the lake. And with it, all of Guatemala. When the clouds parted, we were able to see how far we'd come. And how far we still had to go.


It was then that I realized the truth in Norma's words. When looking out at the volcano, it seems easy. We can see the top, and things seem more manageable when they are in sight. It's the dark that gets us. The moments that seem to stretch on for ages, when we can't see beyond the jungle that engulfs us, and we don't know how far we are from the top. When we can't even be sure how far we've walked already. When our lungs and our legs and our hearts hurt. And when we're racing the sun, the all-powerful source of energy and fatigue that does not give us a second glance. The sun that means everything to us.

So we keep going. You and I, and the Joven Estrellas who are graduating from Starfish in less than two weeks. The Girl Pioneers who have scaled that volcano, and who are almost at the top. Some can see the summit from where they are, and some are still staring up at the jungle. Some can see the bottom, where they came from, and some are waiting for the fog to lift. But all are still climbing. They haven't stopped yet, and they don't plan to stop anytime soon. Their lungs and their legs and their hearts may hurt, but they continue to climb. They climb the volcano as the sun climbs over the mountaintops, on schedule to greet their shining futures at the summit. To look out across the lake, across the entire world, and see everything they have accomplished. And the countless other summits that await them, should they choose to embark on those journeys, too.

If you want to learn more about Starfish One by One, the organization I'm working for in Guatemala, pay a visit to their website: http://www.starfishonebyone.org/

The Ballad of the Orange

There once was an orange that hung on
To a little orange tree in San Juan.
A girl came one day
And took it away,
And just like that it was gone.

Now she slipped that orange in her pack
For it would make such a fine little snack.
A treat for later,
Oh what could be greater!
And she left without looking back.

But, alas! As the tales all go
This one's filled with its share of woe.
The orange sat for a week
With not one little peek
From the girl who picked it long ago.

And after two or three days
An odor began coming her way.
But she misattributed it to
Just lake water and dew
And so, without her knowledge, the orange stayed.

A week and a half went by
And she could no longer turn a blind eye,
So she unpacked her pack
To find the moldy snack
And let out a horrific cry.

And that, children, is the tale
Of a careless girl who failed
To remember the fruit
That she plucked from the root
And which turned all her belongings stale.

Feria or bust.

Panajachel's celebration of San Fransisco occurs every year on October 3rd and 4th. Officially. But here in Pana, we like our parties. This means that the traditionally two-day holiday actually lasts for about two weeks, with street venders and tourists arriving early and only leaving once they've had their fair share of feria. The ferris wheel pops up around September 30th, and the bombas, or fireworks (some of which I think might actually just be small bombs), begin the last week of September and increase in frequency throughout the days and nights until finally, on Thursday of one of the longest weeks of your life, after you get home and swear that there's no way in hell you're going back out tonight, the feria has arrived! And it's calling you.

A typical young adult in Pana arrives at the feria around 11pm Thursday night. Humans move and ooze and melt like molasses, slowly making their way toward the Catholic church at the top of the hill. Food stands and impromptu small businesses have set up camp on either side and straight down the middle of Calle Principal, which has been blocked off to motor vehicles. Smells of three-for-10Q tacos, pizza, churros, and fried platanos saturate the street, which is covered by tarps to keep out the pouring rain. Soon, you approach the thirty-something Foosball tables lining the calle, where you can battle your friends, old and new, at the whopping price of 1Q for five games (with no dumb rules about spinning and shaking the table).

Eventually, you reach the end of Calle Principal, sweating and gasping for fresh air. You find yourself standing in the square in front of the Catholic church, surrounded by three ferris wheels, a rocking pirate ship ride, a small merry-go-round, and, unbelievably so, even more people. We are no longer individuals, but one heaping seeping moving mass of feria.

You clamber onto the biggest ferris wheel and hang on for dear life as it hurls you towards the ground at an ungodly speed, then lifts you back up into the air at the last minute, tossing you slightly out of the seat so that the tops of your thighs slam against the bar, keeping you from being flung off the side of the gigantic screeching clanking joy machine. That, not even to your surprise, is rigged to a tractor motor for power. At least it beats the kiddy merry-go-round, which two preteen boys are pushing by hand.

After three rides on the ferris wheel, you reluctantly step down because you know that you probably shouldn't spend more than 30Q on a children's ride. You head towards the church, where a stage has been set up and a band is playing. The rest of the night is filled with dancing, bombas, tacos, and churros, until the official fireworks show begins at 3am. You'd think people would start to head off to bed after that, right? Wrong! The first night of this happy holiday starts to wind down around 6am. As you head home in the wee hours of the morning, you stop by a taco stand where you show the owner pictures that you promised to take for him of the feria, since he wouldn't be able to see it himself that night. Gotta make a living, even during feria, he tells you.

So, if all of this happens on a Thursday night, what happens on Friday night? Well, the exact same thing. And Saturday too. The wonderful town of Pana ferias all weekend long. So much so that it has become a verb. So, are we feria-ing tonight or what?

Antonio Who's Always Bien

It's Thursday, and I've been in Guatemala for ten days now. I'm halfway through my 9th day of Spanish school, and I'm spending my lunch break sitting on the roof of the school, where a table and chair have been set up, gazing out at Lake Atitlán. It's sunny and warm, which is rare for a September afternoon. I take my sweater off and hang it on the back of my chair.

Soon, Antonio comes up the stairs and joins me on the roof. He has come to gather the clothes from the line, anticipating the afternoon rain. "¿Cómos estás?" he asks me with a broad smile. It's become a sort of joke between us - the fact that both of us sneak up to the roof whenever we get the chance. "Bien, gracias," I answer in my hardly sufficient Spanish, "¿y tú?" "Estoy bien," he answers, still grinning madly. "Siempre estoy bien."

And it's true. Antonio is always bien. Antonio is always happy, always calm, always friendly. He is always working, always sweeping, always watering the plants, always cleaning the bathrooms. He is always deep in thought.

Antonio is always looking out the window when it rains. He is always opening doors for me. He is always drinking tea during his breaks. He takes a lot of breaks. It rains a lot.

Antonio has a wife and two daughters. Every morning he wakes up at 5:00 and goes for a run to Santa Catarina. He arrives at the Spanish school at 6:50 to unlock the doors. It takes Antonio ten minutes to walk to school.

Antonio always asks how I am. He always listens carefully and patiently as I slowly attempt to tell him in Spanish about my day. I always return the question. Antonio always tells me carefully and patiently in Spanish about his day.

Antonio's father couldn't afford to send him to school. When he was 16, Antonio left home to find work. He knocked on all of the doors on Calle Santander asking for work. No one would employ him unless he knew how to read and write. At age 18, Antonio left Panajachel to work in the fields of Guatemala.

Antonio got married when he was 21 and had a baby girl nine months later, whom he named Candelaria. When Candelaria was six years old, he asked her if she wanted to go to school. She said yes. He got a job as a janitor in a hotel, and Candelaria went to school.

When Candelaria finished primary school, Antonio asked her if she wanted to go to secondary school. Candelaria said she did. Antonio began working an extra shift at the hotel, and Candelaria went to secondary school.

Now, Candelaria is a teacher at the Spanish school where Antonio works as a janitor - she got him the job. His other daughter is a doctor in Venezuela.

When Antonio's father visited the Spanish school and saw his granddaughter, he dropped to his knees and apologized to Antonio for not sending him to school. Antonio had already forgiven him 40 years ago.

It's starting to rain, indicating that it's time for Antonio and me to get back to work. We descend the stairs leading down from the roof. I walk toward my classroom for my afternoon class. Antonio makes his way to the window with a cup of tea to watch the rain.

Cars are for suckers. So are sidewalks. And umbrellas.

It's a typical Tuesday afternoon in Panajachel. The streets are bustling with pedestrians and bicyclists, cars and motorcycles, and tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled, bright red taxis that can take you anywhere in town for less than 75¢. That's right tourists, don't let them charge you 8 quetzales just because you're not from around here. I have a man on the inside, and he tells me that it's always 5Q - even for us.

Yes the town is alive in the afternoon, and that spirit will not be dampened by the rain that falls every day at about 5pm - just when everyone is on their way home from work. But rainy days are a strange sight in Pana, as behavior seems odd to the foreign eye. There are few cars and many people walking. Umbrellas are scarce among these many wet pedestrians. People trod through opaque puddles in their faux leather dress shoes instead of stepping around. Why, in a place where people expect rain at the same time every day, is everyone so wet?

Take note of the photo below. You may notice the narrowness of the street - this is Calle Principal, the "Main Street" of Pana. I stop at this exact location every day on my way home. Not to grab a bite to eat or to people watch, but because I have to stop to let a car or two pass before taking my turn walking up the hill. Everyone knows the routine. Pedestrians walk in the street because there are no sidewalks around. If a tuk-tuk comes by, you must close your umbrella so that it has room to pass by you. If a car comes, you must close your umbrella, step off the street and into a store, and wait for it to squeeze past, guided by a handful of men motioning and yelling at the driver. When the coast is clear, you may return to walking down the street, although you may have to close your umbrella a few more times to let one of the 107 tuk-tuks in Pana by.

And so, many people choose not to carry an umbrella with them because they know it will only be above their heads for a fraction of their walk home. Most people don't step around the puddles because they would be stepping into the middle of the street, soon to be run down by a tuk-tuk. And almost no one drives a car, because if you do, everyone hates you.

It's the rainy season here in Pana, and we love to get wet!

A Series of "How To's" by Eliza

How to Shower in Guatemala
1. Clarify with la mama that the bucket sitting on the bathroom floor is, in fact, the "shower"
2. Intend to ask la mama to show you how to use it but instead, in your broken Spanish, ask her to "help you shower"
3. Clarify that you don't need help showering, you'll manage just fine on your own
4. Fill wash bucket with 2 parts cold water and 1 part boiling water
5. Actually fill it 3 parts cold water because the stove is being used to cook
6. Scoop water out of bucket with smaller bucket that may or may not have just been used as a water dish for the neighbor's dog
7. Pour freezing water over head
8. Repeat as necessary

How to Travel Home from School in the Rain
1. Get out umbrella
2. Put on waterproof shoes
3. Change into bathing suit
4. Open umbrella
5. Place umbrella upside down on full-blown river rushing down street
6. Sit in umbrella
7. Raft down river until final destination is reached

How to Have a Conversation in Spanish
1. Ask the person to please repeat what he or she just said
2. Apologize and ask him or her to repeat it again more slowly
3. Apologize again and ask him or her to repeat it just one more time
4. You can't ask a fourth time, gringo. Smile and nod.

How I Got Into Guatemala

The following conversation has been translated from broken Spanish to broken English.

Customs officer: "You don't have a return ticket?"
Eliza: "No sir, I go to Guatemala for less than three months and after I travel to Peru."
CO: "What are you doing in Guatemala?"
Eliza: "I am going to study Spanish and do service."
CO: "You're not going to earn money?"
Eliza: "No sir."
CO: Points at ukulele in my hand. "Not even with that?"
Eliza: "No, it's not possible."
CO: "Why not?"
Eliza: "Because I am really really bad at it. Probably the worst in this airport, possibly in all of Guatemala."
CO: Laughs, stamps my passport, and waves me on.

Bienvenidos a Guatemala!

Introductions

Let me start off by introducing myself, the blogger whom many of you may call friend, family, or crazy. My name is Eliza Stein, and I not-so-secretly hate blogs. Welcome to my blog.

As many of you know, I am spending the 2013-2014 academic year traveling in Latin America. I am currently trying to convince myself that I chose to do this because of a desire to learn more about the world I will someday be blessed with the burden of fixing - you know, change my world view so that I can help change my world.

But we all know that the real reason I'm taking time off this year is because the person in the picture on the left (Eliza, age 4) appears to be all too similar to the person in the picture on the right (Eliza, age 18). And both of them seem to have some things to figure out before entering the real world (or at least that's what my teachers call college).

 

Friends, family, and my grandma's girlfriends, I invite you to join me on my journey as I uncover more and more reasons why the world we live in is magnificent, why the people we encounter are spectacular, and where I fit into this big, beautiful mess.