100 days of gratitude

My blog has been sadly neglected lately. I've also been a bit down, focused on my disappointments and frustrations instead of the things that bring smiles to my life. So, in order to cultivate a spirit of gratitude, and start sharing glimpses of my life with you again, I've arbitrarily decided to blog 100 things that I am grateful for. No promises on how long it will take me to post 100 days worth....

But without further ado...

Today I’m grateful for raindrop bejeweled flowers. This one stopped me in my tracks on the way home from work. We’re headed into the end of rainy season, and while fording rivers in the streets and remembering an umbrella every time I head out the door can complicate things, there’s also the coziness of an evening inside listening to the rain on the roof. A rainy afternoon is a bit like a snow day (and luckily for me, the rain usually waits until the afternoon, after I’m back from work, to start). Unless something is really important, it’s easy to say “it can wait til tomorrow” and curl up on my couch with a book.  So I'm thankful for the rain, that leaves flowers dazzling, paints the world green, and gives me the perfect excuse for cozy evenings at home.  

The Sololá Fair

The bus is packed, we sit 3 to a seat, shoulder to shoulder, as we wend our way up the mountain.  Entering Sololá, I try to peer out the window, gauging when to get up and head to the door, as we turn down one narrow street after the other, but I'm stuck in the center and it's hard to see. The bus slows, and I catch a glimpse of the park in front of me, so with muttered "permiso" and "perdon", I push my way to the door.

The park is more alive than I've ever seen it.  Families line the walls along the paths, the women dressed in colorful huipiles (emobrodiered shirts), cortes (skirts) and fajas (an emboidered band used as a belt).  Many of the men are also wear traditonal Mayan clothes.  There's a band playing off to one side, so I go and stand on the wall and watch for awhile, then join the crowds to see the rest of the fair.

Stalls have been set up with a narrow alley between them.  Stuffed animals and other prizes hang from the ceilings, reminding me of town fairs in the States, but instead of funnel cakes and pulled pork, here they're selling fried plantains, churros, papaya smoothies, and dozens of sweets I don't recognize.

I finally hit the section of the fair where the rides are.  There's a decent sized ferris wheel and I stop with all the other spectators to stare and decide if I want to ride.  Who knows what's holding it together, but hey, I didn't take the bus here just to watch, so I pay my 5 Q and step on.  As soon as we stomach lurchingly turn in to the air, I question my decision.  The seat is narrow, the bar to hold me in seems so tiny I'm not sure I can trust it, but no one else had fallen out while I was watching...  We spin, faster and higher than I had expected.  There's a soccer field in the distance, the roofs of the houses, the church all decked out for the fair, and off to my right, the volcanoes looming over the lake.  I'm alternately delighted and terrified as we spin madly around, and step off, a little shaken and woozy.

I buy some corn on the cob with lime and salt and head back to the band stands.  There's a different group playing now, but what attracts my attention is not so much the music as the dancers.  They're wearing full face masks, and the frozen expressions coupled with the clash of outlandish costumes (there are Mayan warriors, shoe shiners, and candy sellers among the mix) are so oddly unsettling that I stand transfixed.  I wonder what it's all about- the costumes seem like caricatures to me, as if maybe this is some elaborate story telling telegraphed to the audience just by knowing who the dancers are.

I wander off, looking for something more to eat and settle on some pre-sliced fruit and then a chocolate dipped ice cream cone.  It's louder in the park now- bands are playing from two bandstands at once and the literal battle of the bands is overwhelming me.  The sun has gotten hotter and almost every patch of shade has already been claimed, so once my ice cream cone is done, I get on the next bus and head back down the mountain to Pana.

Half my adult life...

I left the US six years ago today, and other than short stints at home, I've been living abroad since then. Each year on the anniversary of the date I left home, I like to reflect on the past year and look forward to the next.

This year has been even more full of change for me than usual.  It's been a year of answered prayer, of seeing God respond in ways that were beyond my expectations.  It's been a year of movement after a time of preparation.  Last July I was in my 2nd semester of my master's degree in Germany.  I was stressed about my thesis and trying to figure out exactly what my focus would be and how I would conduct my research.  I was worried about the future, wondering if I would find a job I enjoyed in a place I wanted to live.  I was lonely and wishing for someone to share my life with.

Now, I'm graduated, one masters degree to my name (another in the works) and a published author (granted, the paper I published is in an obscure Romanian journal and you'd be hard put to find it).

I applied for my dream job and moved to Guatemala to start it.  I'm settling in to a rhythm here, learning my way around, getting to know my coworkers, and starting to see how I fit in to the team and what I can contribute.

And, most unexpected of all, I found love when I had given up on it for that stage in my life. Granted, a long-distance relationship with a 9 hour time zone difference is not the sort of thing most people intentionally strive for and wasn't at all what I was planning on. But I am enjoying the butterflies, the long conversations, the connection that comes with sharing your life with someone even across the distance, and the still cautious but growing hope of sharing our future together.

I'm looking forward to the next year.  I'm expecting it to be one of establishment.  I hope by this time next year to be completely comfortable in my job, to feel like I'm contributing and like my presence has made a positive difference.  I hope that Cristian and I will be a stronger couple, will know where our futures are headed, and that we won't be long distance anymore.

But even with the unknowns in my future, and the discomfort that uncertainty can bring, there's one thing I do know- I can trust the one who's brought me to this point to never let me go and to keep leading me.

A different kind of culture shock

With almost six years of living abroad under my belt, I sometimes think I have this living in different countries thing down.  I have this rather broad mental category called "Latin America" that helps me navigate my way around here.  I expect to ask for what I need from the person behind the counter at little stores, instead of finding the item myself.  Flagging down whatever public transport I'm using wherever instead of waiting at a stop is normal.  Not worrying about the time too much (except for getting to work) because it probably won't start on time anyway is the status quo. I know to look for contact lens solution at the pharmacy instead of the grocery store, that dish soap isn't liquid, that mayonnaise comes in a bag, that yogurt is drinkable, that eggs don't go in the refrigerator and that it's best to have a good supply of bills worth less than the US equivalent of $10 if you want to be sure the person you're buying from will have change.

But sometimes, my expectations fail me.  Take, for example, my bag of milk.  Now, that milk comes in a bag does not surprise me; I always bought bags of milk in Colombia.  But, the problem with a bag of milk is that it does not sit upright, which is a bit of problem when it's opened.  So, the first few times I bought milk here, I bought milk in a box, but I decided I didn't want to spend the extra 50 cents every time I bought milk just for the box, so I bought the bag and figured I'd get the container that you put it in, like I had in Colombia.

Milk in a bag (also, it doesn't need to be refrigerated before opening)

I was mildly surprised they didn't have the container in the section with assorted kitchen stuff at the grocery store, but it's pretty small, so I figured I'd try at the plastic store on my way home.  The plastic store, in case you don't happen to have one where you live, is a store where they sell everything made of plastic- hangers, tupperware containers, plastic buckets, office organizers, garbage cans, fly swatters- if it's made of plastic, it's there.

I asked the girl working there if they had boxes to keep a bag of milk in once it was opened.  She looked at me as if she had no idea what I was talking about.  I explained a little more, "you know, so it doesn't spill when it's in the fridge after you open is".  "Oh!  Liquid milk!" she answered (I think powdered milk is most common here), but she still looked a bit confused.  She led me over and pointed to what looked like a child's sand bucket.  "How about this?"  Somehow it seemed like we still weren't communicating.  "No" I explained. "It's rectangular, and it fits in the door of the fridge, and the bag of milk stands up in it and you can pour it."

She looked at me blankly.  "No, sorry.  We don't sell those." Now, surely I can not be the only person who doesn't use an entire bag of milk at one sitting.  There has to be a solution to the bagged milk problem.  So I asked what people here do. "Oh, they fold over the opening a few times and clip it shut" she told me.  

Mind blown.  Just when I thought I had things figured out, turns out they go and use bagged milk here in a completely different way.  

(I bought a one liter plastic pitcher with a lid.  That seemed like a better solution to me)

( THIS is what I was looking for.  Oh well, my pitcher will work just fine I suppose)

Vignettes from My First Weeks on the Job

I stand, swaying in the back of a pick-up, as we swerve around hairpin mountain turns.  It’s chilly this early in the mornings, and the wind blows my hair in my face.  The view of the volcanoes and the lake on this road is spectacular.  My fellow passengers, mostly indigenous Mayan wearing their traditional clothing, seem un-phased by the view.  I wonder how long until it’s just common place to me as well, and appreciating the beauty takes conscious effort. I’ve done this trip several times now, headed to meetings and school observations, and workshops, so now I recognize where I need to get off.  I knock on the window and the driver pulls to a halt.  Climbing off the back, I reach through his window and pay him 3 quetzales (about 45 cents) and then cross the road to the building where our meeting is held.

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The room is crowded with 30 teachers, all sitting on small student chairs, hunched over low tables.  There’s a buzz in the air, as they all work intently on their news articles.  Two of our facilitators are leading a workshop on teaching writing in the elementary classroom, and now teachers are practicing a technique they’ll be encouraged to use in the classroom.  As they finish their articles, they step to the front of the room.  Someone grabs a box that was sitting on a table and uses it as a fake video camera. “Lights, camera, action” we all shout and the first reporter steps up. “And now, from Naranjo school, a recent classroom soccer championship was held. . . this is María reporting live for Gossip News.”

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Small children giggle as they look at me.  They’re probably not too used to seeing foreigners this far off the beaten track.  It took me two hours to get here this morning, first a bus, then a mini-van, then a pick-up, all forms of public transportation here in Guatemala.  Their teacher launches into the lesson she’s prepared based on one of our workshops she’s attended.  After reading aloud to the students, they are broken into small groups to create their own version of the story.  “Take a picture of ours!” one group begs me, as they carefully add in illustrations to go with their story.  The facilitator who’s in charge of follow ups with the school takes notes to go over with the teacher at the end of class.  After some general observations, recommendations, and praise for a job well done, we head off to the next classroom where another teacher is ready for his follow-up.

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The staff sit around the table discussing plans for the next workshop.  They’re in disagreement about which order they should present two of the points on the agenda, and the opposing sides are giving their pedagogical reasoning.  I’m enjoying the opportunity to see them think aloud and reach consensus.  I’m still sitting back, observing, taking notes, assimilating myself to my new work culture before I stick in my oar, as it were, but I smile to myself as they finally decide on the order I would have recommended, if I’d made a recommendation. 

House hunting- Pana style

"So, you ready to go look at houses?" my coworker asked me, unlocking his motorcycle after our meeting last Friday.  House hunting I was sure about, riding a motorcycle not quite as much so, but I clambered on the back and off we went.  As we reached the road along the lake I caught my breath.  The volcanoes were rising up on the far side of the lake, their triangular peaks cutting the sky.  I hadn’t gotten a chance to see them when I arrived the day before since clouds and mist obscured the view.  I wished I had my camera with me, but taking photos while riding on the back of a motorcycle probably isn’t recommended anyway.

Things didn’t look so great at first- a phone call to confirm a place to look at that we found out was no longer available, a decent studio apartment but they wouldn’t let me have my cat, 3 real estate offices with nothing worth looking at. . . I was beginning to think this might be impossible.

That same evening though, after giving up for the night, I was talking to a friend.  She was also house-hunting and had found the perfect place her first try on a tip from a friend.  There happened to be a 2^nd house available in the same complex, so she gave me the contact info.

The next morning, sitting over breakfast, I made a couple phone calls and set up 2 more apartment visits.  Then, in the afternoon, I walked around until I found “for rent” signs and made a couple more spontaneous visits.  Three of the places were a bit bleak and depressing- cement block walls, dark, claustrophobic.  Not really options in my book.  But the first one I looked at, the one my friend recommended, had potential.

So, I decided to move in.  I just took it for a month for now, in case I find something I love in the next few weeks.  But if I don’t this is fine.  It’s furnished, centrally located, decent rent, a good size for just me, bright and sunny, seems safe, and has a patio and yard. It’s also rather noisy at night, I miss having kitchen cupboards, the internet has been really bad, they’re doing construction next door so I hear hammers and saws all afternoon, and I have trouble getting the hot water heater for the shower started, so I might still keep looking.  But at least for now, here’s my house in Pana.

My tiny house, porch and yard. The rainy season is just now starting, so the grass will be green soon.

My bedroom- on the small side, but then, I'm a small person.

My favorite room in the house- the living room is quite cozy

My very non-US kitchen

A different world

Spring has been struggling to arrive in Finland- the buds are coming out on the trees, but for every one spring-like day that made me think spring had surely arrived, there were a half dozen days of "takatalvi" a Finnish word for the winter that comes back after you think spring has arrived.

So, Tuesday night, I was walking through a snow shower, bundled in my hat and scarf and gloves and coat, and now here I am sitting barefoot in a hammock with tropical plants blooming around me.  It's been a rather dramatic change.

Finland

Guatemala

It isn't just the climate that's changed. The architecture, the flavors, the colors, the people, the language, everything around me is about as different as you can get.

Finland

Guatemala

Today I walked up a hill overlooking Antigua and sat to enjoy the view.  An older woman was sitting next to me. "It's a pretty view, isn't it?" she asked, then proceeded to tell me how she and her brother were visiting Antigua for the first time and were from a village on the other side of the volcano.  She asked where I was from, what I was doing in Guatemala, how long I would be there, then wished me a pleasant stay in Guatemala when I wandered off to take photos.  She's not the only one.  I've learned bits and pieces of the life story of half a dozen people here and they've learned bits and pieces of mine.  Quite a change from Finland where I can count the social interactions I had with strangers in 2 years: one conversation with a stranger in a bank, a brief introduction from a stranger on the bus, and 2 people asking for directions.  I'm pretty sure I'm in a different world. And while Finland is a wonderful place, I'm incredibly happy to be here in Guatemala now!

Finland

Guatemala