More Finca Stories...

Despite what most of you probably think by now, I actually am still alive. It’s been a bit since I’ve gotten around to putting up a blog post, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have anything worthwhile to report. So let me start off with some good news: I seem to be winning the war with the ants. After the first month or so, it seemed that either I had become better at dodging the little buggers as I walked across the Finca in my sandals, or my feet have become less tasty and the ants have moved on to something better. Whichever one it is, it’s fine by me, as long as I’m not constantly itching and scratching my feet every five minutes. They do make their presence known every now and then, but for the most part my feet are much happier.

The war on the bees.

However, the forces of nature haven’t completely given up their fight against man… For a while now we’ve had a couple bee hives in one of the school buildings, hidden somewhere inside the roof, and every few weeks or so a kid would get stung by a rogue bee. I talked to the maintenance guys about trying to get rid of it, but they weren’t exactly thrilled about climbing up a ladder and waging a war against the bees. We tried shooting an entire can of Raid through a gap in the wall where we thought the hive was, but it didn’t have much effect. We tried getting to it from the attic, but it turned out we weren’t able to reach the section of the roof where the hive was. So with no creative ideas remaining, it seemed like the only option with a hope of success was removing a section of the roof and attacking the hive head on.  And while this option was no doubt a little dangerous, the thought of it did get the adrenaline flowin a bit. So one afternoon, we gathered all the maintenance guys together, and I suited up in jeans, shoes, a sweatshirt, and gloves. To protect my face, I taped a bunch of mesh to a hat and created a makeshift faceguard that I prayed would work sufficiently. So without further adieu, I climbed up a ladder, with one can of Raid in my hand and an extra in my pocket, ripped off the side panel of the roof with a hammer, and started blinding shooting at the cloud of swarming bees. The bees covered my gloves and arms, but it appeared that the thick clothing would be enough to protect me. After expending most of the Raid, I stuck my hands into the roof and started ripping out the hive piece by piece, and eventually the entire watermelon-sized hive was lying on the ground with a mountain of dead bees surrounding it. One hive down, one to go… We moved the ladder to the second hive, and I tried the same approach: climb ladder, rip off roof panel, and douse with Raid. Unfortunately, this hive was a bit larger, and these bees were a bit more pissed off. They were so ferocious in fact, I could feel a few stinging me through the thick sweatshirt. The buzzing became louder and louder as they swarmed around my head, seemingly unphased by the Raid, until eventually I had to jump off the ladder and make a run for it. But I wasn’t the only one feeling their wrath. As I was full speed sprinting away, I heard a few of the workers let out a few choice words, start swatting at their arms and head, and make a run for it themselves. Even a few of the kids who were working in the library had to head for the hills. However, without any other choices, and with a hive full of bees laughing at me, I was forced to reclimb the ladder, this time with a fresh can of Raid, and continue the war. And eventually the poison and my determination proved too much for them. Soon enough their hive was lying on the ground in pieces as weel So with the feeling of victory filling our hearts, we loaded up the truck with the ladder and equipment and returned to the workshop victorious. Almost… Within a few hours my right hand had swelled up to the size of a balloon, proving that even my thick gloves were no match for a swarm of angry bees. My left arm was a little swollen as well. The kids thought it was hiliarious though, and made me show them my gigantic hand every time I walked passed their house for the next few days. Every war comes with casualties I suppose.

But despite all of the exciting bouts with nature, life at the Finca can be a struggle sometimes as well. Being the head of maintenance, as it turns out, can be quite a lot of responsibility. Organizing the workers, getting the supplies for the projects, managing a tight budget, keeping the houses in good working condition so house mothers are happy , organizing work for the kids so they can learn a work ethic and also skills, and doing it all in an unfamiliar language, culture, and place, can be quite stressful. Some days the workers and I don’t share the same opinions, and some days the kids would rather cuss you out than rake the leaves. So it’s days like this that I’m thankful for the spirituality of the Finca, and the great community of volunteers we have, because it is then more than ever that I rely on God to get me through and rely on my community members to help me keep my head up.

Soccer goal made with some of the boys.

But mixed in with the hard moments, are moments of real beauty too. Moments where I really feel like I’m here for a reason and really have something to give. A lot of times it’s hard to connect with the kids. Sure the littler ones jump all over you and wanna play all the time and yell your name when you walk by their house, but the teenagers here are like teenagers anywhere else. They can be moody, standoffish, and with an attitude. But every once in a while they surprise you too. One weekend I spent in La Ceiba, a large city three hours away from the farm where our high school program is. There are two boys and three girls who attend a Catholic high school in this town, and two of our volunteers live there in an apartment with them. I do a lot of driving for the Finca when there are trips to La Ceiba, since maintenance has a more flexible schedule than other jobs, and I happened to be there that weekend for one of these trips. I was standing on the balcony that night, about 11 o’clock, about to turn in to bed, when one of the boys came out and started chatting with me. I always joke around with this kid (like I do with every kid), but we’ve never really had any deep conversations. But for one reason or another, he was in the mood to talk that night. He opened up to me about how his parents had passed away when he was young, how his cousin was running from gang members, where his other family members lived in Honduras. He told me what he thought he might do when he graduates from the Finca this next year, what his different thoughts and plans are. And he told me about his dream to travel Central America and see every all the different countries and cultures. The conversation caught me off guard, because it’s not always easy to connect with the kids in a really meaningful way. We come from different backgrounds, different cultures, speak different languages, and with volunteers cycling in and out of their lives all the time, it’s easy for them to put up walls and not open up, because after all, we’re gonna go back to the States in a couple years anyways. But there are also times that we can connect with them in a deep way, because they lack a family that really loves and cares for them, and even though us volunteers may not be here for their entire upbringing, we do really love them and care about them. So I think that conversation really meant a lot to both of us, and I was definitely honored that he shared all of that with me.

But I don’t wanna end with a sappy story. I’m not trying to be a writer for Guidepost magazine here. So let’s talk about something cool. Beards. Anyone who knows me, knows I have a real love for beards. Really it’s a Hanvey family tradition. Though Papa Hanvey has a smooth face now, he’s been known to rock a nice thick beard every once in a while, Isaac’s has something akin to a red fox hanging off his jowls right now, and ever since arriving in Honduras, I haven’t taken the clippers to mine. It’s been over four months now, so it’s getting pretty grisly too. The kids have started calling me Barbudo, which means “Huge Beard” in Spanish, and the neighbors I play soccer with on Friday afternoons started calling me Osama last week. Classic… Not sure how long I’ll keep it, but rainy season will be here in a month or so, and the temperatures start dropping then (down to a freezing 65 degrees), so maybe I’ll need it to keep my face warm. We’ll see what happens. 

Livin on the beach is pretty rough sometimes...

Gettin Settled In

So there we were, just another typical day at the Finca, cutting down some overgrown trees that were endangering one of the buildings, when all of a sudden, blood comes squirting out of the tree along the blade of the running chainsaw! Ahhh!!! Blood!!!!!!! Okay, well maybe the 40 year old Honduran beast-men maintenance workers didn’t scream bloody murder, but they did have a pretty funny look of surprise on their faces. We cut a little more and soon realized the source of the blood and guts: a Garrobo living inside the tree. Or at least he used he used to be living, and as we were cutting through the tree trunk we cut right through his house and cleanly through his neck. Actually cut his head clean off. So now we had two halves of a freshly dead garobbo. But before I continue, let me give you a little back story…

The delicious garrobo right before he went to the frying pan.

For the last few weeks at the farm I’d been fascinated by these iguana like creatures the locals call garrobos. Basically the exact same as an iguana, just colored a little different, and much more in abundance. They live in the trees (as well as a few that live in the clinic, the middle school building, and under our house) and are seen frequently scampering around the farm grounds. The main reason for my interest was that the workers told me they were tasty little creatures, even better as chicken, so as I saw them running through the trees I always thought how nice it’d be to put one over the fire and have a little afternoon snack of garrobo and frijoles. In fact the previous Sunday, I spent half an hour chasing one that had gotten into the chapel and couldn’t find his way out. I ended up catching him in a cardboard box and carried him back to our house, but as I was swinging the machete to lay the deadly blow, he scampered up the side of the box and escaped. I was devastated. So close to success, but alas, he escaped. So when the workers happened to behead a quite large one with our chainsaw, I was pumped. It was a gift from above.

One of the workers and house dad’s, Edgar, took me and the garrobo back to House 5, where the oldest boys on the farm live, and prepared him for a lunch feast. We put him in the fire to char his skin so that it’d be easy to pull off, washed him in the juice from an orange to add a little kick to his flavor, cut him into pieces, sprinkled him in a mix of spices, rolled the pieces in flour, fried that baby up, and after a few minutes in the boiling grease, we got to taste the sweet, sweet goodness of a freshly cooked garrobo. And it wasn’t disappointing at all. Just like the maintenance guys had told me, the meat was soft, flavorful, and better than chicken. It was the taste of success.

Two volunteers (in the middle) with a bunch of our kids.

So other than trying the delectable meats of Honduras, I’ve had plenty to keep my hands full here at the farm. The day starts at 5:40 when my alarm goes off for morning prayer, and things are pretty busy until we wrap up the evening activities at 8:00 or 8:30. But as the days pass I’m becoming more comfortable here. A few weeks ago I took over as the sole head of maintenance, with Jacob, the old boss man, passing me the torch. And while there are definitely struggles, as is to be expected, I’m slowly coming into my own. We’ve got a lot of great projects going on: we’re planting orange, plantain, and mango orchards, each consisting of about 50 trees  complete with a rudimentary irrigation system, rebuilding or refinishing all of the washing basins (called pilas) in each of the children’s homes, as well as making a big push to clean up the grounds of the farm. And since that constitutes 22 acres of trees, bushes, and grass, it’s quite a task.

It is a little bit of a strange sight though: a 24 year old gringo, who can barely speak the language, being the boss of 5 Honduran maintenance men, several of which have worked at the farm for double digit years. However I’ve been blessed with a team that’s incredibly humble, and that’s really the reason it works so well. I think if I was a middle aged man with years of experience, and some foreigner came in, knowing nothing about my country and barely speaking my language, and told me how to do my job, I’d have some issues with that. But these men are humble, and used to this structure, so it actually works pretty well. I think the combination of my planning and organizational skills, and their knowledge and know-how of maintenance tasks here, has the ability to produce beautiful results. Here’s what I mean: I’m a person who plans, organizes things, and visualizes how projects will affect the farm in the future. I think about which projects are most important, how to divvy up the budget, and where we should focus our work. But Honduran culture is not one that looks into the future; they live very much day to day. Not a single one of the workers has a bank account, they don’t save their money, but just spend it as they get it. If something big comes up like repairs to their motorcycles or house, they borrow some cash, or wait til their next paycheck comes to get it fixed. When something breaks here, usually their first instinct is to do a quick fix on it, instead of looking for something more permanent. In an area where excess and luxury doesn’t really exist, people are just focused on getting by day to day. My favorite example of this is every day at 4:30 when I’m saying bye to the workers and thanking them for their help, they always say “Hasta manaña,” or “Nos vemos,” (“See you tomorrow,” or “See you when I see you”) and follow it up with “Si Dios quiere,” which translates to “If God wills it.” Basically, “I’ll see you tomorrow, but only if God allows.” They know that nothing is promised to us, tomorrow is not a guarantee, and ultimately all of our efforts are dependent on the will of God. What a beautiful and accurate view of life, something most Americans could take a lesson from.

So like I said, it actually comes together quite well. Both of our backgrounds and mindsets coming together to make the farm a better place. Maybe over the next two years they can learn a little from me about planning and organization, and hopefully I’ll learn a lot from them about living in the moment, and depending completely on God’s providence.

So little by little I’m learning more about this place, my new home, my new friends, and the children. I’m not settled in, I’m very much still learning, finding how to divide my time up, when to spend it with the kids, when to spend it on myself, and how to interact with people from a very different culture. I’m still learning the basics of the language, how to roll my r’s and how to conjugate the verbs. But surely enough, I’m figuring it out, making it through the weeks, and have to say I’m definitely very blessed to have the opportunity to learn so much. 

The neighbor boys playing a game of soccer on our field as the sun sets behind the chapel.

I've Finally Made It!

Everyone, I have an announcement to make: I am now at war. And I don’t mean with poverty in Central America, or corrupt political leaders, or the unjustness of society and the gap between the rich and the poor. It’s none of these things. And it’s not something religious either like the devil or sin or anything like that. What I’m facing is much more serious, much more heinous, and much more devastating. And that thing is… ants. The ants that rule the 22 acres of this orphanage have wrecked havoc on my feet for the last three weeks, and I can take it no more. No longer will I put up with these itchy red bumps all over my feet that won’t go away and constantly seem to reproduce. It will be a lifetime of work I’m sure, but there’s nothing I want more than to smash every ant I can find, and make them pay for all my discomfort. And the mosquitoes too for that matter. And maybe the flies, cause they can get pretty annoying. In fact, we can just get rid of every bug in the place for all I care…

Okay though, but other than my war with the ants, life is going pretty well down here. I arrived at the orphanage about three weeks ago, and since that time I’ve been getting to know the people, beginning to work with the maintenance team, and generally just adjusting to the rhythm of life down here. I can definitely say things are a little bit different than the college life of TCU and the boat life of a merchant mariner. When I was at TCU, I normally rolled out of bed at 9:45am, just in time to thrown on a pair of pants and walk into class a couple minutes late. Now I roll out of bed significantly earlier, to the tune of 5:45, just in time to brush my teeth and walk over to the chapel for morning prayer. At TCU I spent hours everyday on the internet checking my email and reading articles on espn.com. Now I’m lucky to get to check my email once a week, and normally it’s more infrequent than that. In the TCU cafeteria, my regular diet was cheeseburgers, sandwiches, french fries, fruit, pizza, and maybe a couple vegetables here and there. Now I eat beans and rice at virtually every meal, and sometimes only those two things. Life is a little more simple here.

And speaking of the simple life, I’m learning how they do maintenance south of the border as well. On the ships I worked on, we had 4 or 5 welding machines, thousands of wrenches, ten drills and five sawzaws, and basically every tool you could dream of. Things are a little different here. We do have a welding machine, but I’m pretty sure it’s from the sixties and you have to prop up the on/off switch with a stick to make it work. You can’t just walk down to the lumber store whenever you’re short a2x4 for your wood project. In fact, most of the lumber we use here, is home made. The workers cut down huge straight trees out of the nearby forests, carefully cut them into squares using a chainsaw, and then run then through a table saw to make them the size they need. It’s really quite fascinating and pretty amazing. The things they can do here with very few tools and not many resources is unreal. I’ve really enjoyed working with the maintenance guys so far. We have a team of five workers, ranging in age from 26 to 47, and even though their Spanish is fast and slurred and pretty difficult for me to understand, we’ve been working pretty well together. We have a long list of projects and maintenance things that need to be taken care, and little by little we’re knocking them out. Right now we’re repairing and refinishing the “pilas,” which are large washing basins about the size of a standalone freezer, in all six of the children’s houses. And today one of the workers even started teaching me how to throw wet concrete on the walls of the pilas. Who knows, maybe after two years of this work I’ll be able to start a masonry company back in the states… 

The first few weeks have definitely been a little bit overwhelming as I’ve been trying to get into the groove of life down here. Trying to get to know all the kids, all the other volunteers, figure out my job and other responsibilities, and still getting better with my Spanish little by little. As far as the job goes, I’ll have a very significant budget I’ll be in charge of, five workers to keep occupied, work for the kids in the afternoon to be in charge of, an agriculture class to coordinate for all the kids in the school, as well as random other tasks to keep up with like taking the trash to the dump and finding firewood and getting it chopped for all of the houses (they all use wood burning stoves). It will definitely be a challenge and a big responsibility, but I’m looking forward to the task and I think it will be very rewarding once I get into the groove of things. 

As for right now though, I’m just taking things little by little, and soaking up the beautiful way of life down here. Sitting in the chapel in the evening praying and listening to the children laughing and playing outside their houses. Watching the sunset over the ocean just fifty feet out the front door of our house. Seeing the clouds roll through the mountaintops as I walk to morning prayer every day. Going on a hiking trip with a group of the adolescent girls. Hanging out in the living room of our house with the other volunteers cracking jokes and talking about life. Playing soccer with the locals, and running out of breath in the first ten minutes. Watching a hen walk across the field with a handful of chicks following her. Sharing a coke with the maintenance guys during the 10:00 break, and talking about the weekend’s soccer match. 

So all in all, I think it will be a big challenge and one hell of an incredible ride all at the same time. Three weeks down, two years to go.

Holy Week Etc.

This time of year in Guatemala is known as the holy week hangover. Or at least that’s what I heard them call it in the bar the other night. This probably sounds a bit strange considering that in the states most people don’t stay up all night drinking during holy week, but things are a little different here. Not that everyone drinks, but whether you do or not, the Easter Triduum in Antigua bares few similarities with the one I knew back in Texas. Let me explain…

Alfrombra from the colored sawdust.

Life in Guatemala, and most of Central America, was dominated by Catholicism for years and years during the formation of their current society. So even though Evangelic churches, Mormon Temples, and Jewish Synagogues are springing up everywhere, Catholic customs are still a huge part of life. During holy week a huge part of the country just shuts down, and half of its inhabitants migrate to Antigua for the festivities. Every hotel, hostal, and street corner is packed with Guatemalans and Gringos alike. It’s hard to even walk through the city due to the floods of people. And there all here for a few certain things: the alfombras, the velaciones, and the processions. Every day throughout holy week one church or the other will have what they call a velacion, which is a huge display in their church to show their devotion and to honor Christ. They cost lots of money and take tons of work by the church members, but they really are truly impressive. On the floor of the church there is a gigantic alfombra, “carpet” in English, made of colored sawdust and every kind of fruit arranged in a beautiful pattern. They’re really interesting to see. And after you’re done looking at these, you can walk outside and get something to eat from any of the 500 street vendors packed all around the church.

Procession on Good Friday.

The other thing the churches do here is the processions. Think of a huge float from Mardi Gras, but instead of having bare-chested women on top, there’s a scene depicting the life of Christ, and instead of being pulled by a truck, it’s being carried on the shoulders of a hundred Guatemalans clad in purple robes and struggling under its weight. Walking along side it in two huge lines are a couple thousand other purple clad Guatemalans, as well as a band, and sometimes another smaller float or two. In the bigger processions on Holy Thursday and Good Friday there is a bunch of guys dressed as roman soldiers, riding horses, leading the procession through the streets. But they aren’t just marching on the cobblestone streets, they’re marching over, and demolishing, huge alfombras that people have spent hours and hours making. The same alfrombras that are made of colored sawdust, fruits, and flowers in the church, are also made on the streets for the sole purpose of being trampled by the processions. Pretty strange right? I thought so too… Back in the day I’m sure it was a show of devotion and penance, and for some it probably still is, but I think now it’s more of a tradition than anything. The guys clad in purple accompanying the floats are often texting on their phones or chatting with the guy in front of them, and everyone has their cell phone out taking pictures as the show goes by. It’s not exactly a solemn march, in my opinion. Regardless, it’s an age old tradition, and pretty incredible to see.

Alfombra made of flowers, ready to get stomped.

But that’s not the only tradition of Guatemala for Holy Week. The other is going to the beach and partying for days on end. The most popular beach here is called Monterrico, and I and a few of my friends decided to check it out this past Saturday and Sunday. We went there thinking we might be able to escape the crowds a little bit, but oh were we surprised. I have never seen so many people jammed into one beach in my entire life. It was insane. We layed around the beach, ate some tasty food, and hung out for most of the day, and then by the time night rolled around the music started pounding. Every hostel there has a party, and ours happened to be one of the bigger ones. Huge speakers, strobe lights, a DJ, and about two hundred Guatemalans crammed into one small space. But since our room was right beside the party, and the pounding music wasn’t gonna stop til three or four or in the morning anyways, there was only one thing to do. Join them. So we drank a few beers, went to the dance floor, took our shirts off like every other Guatemalan guy out there, and began to dance like the floor was on fire. At one point we even had half of the people in the bar shouting, “U S A!, U S A! U S A!” Probably the greatest achievement of my life.

Women carry them too.

So here I am, back to normal life in Antigua, doing the same as every other Guatemalan around: nursing my holy week hangover. Better heal up fast though. Cause come Monday, I’ve got a bus ticket to Honduras to begin my time at the orphanage.  

Big Problem in Little Chinatown

Local scoreboard in Santa Anna

At the same time the United States was struggling through Vietnam, Central America was struggling through sweeping revolutions, and it appears that fighting spirit is still with the people today. Last Monday (the 12^th), when I showed up for my Spanish class, it seemed that it would be just another day of conjugating verbs and stumbling through translated sentences. But when I came back from the morning break at 10:30, the atmosphere at the school had changed a bit. My teacher informed me that the previous Thursday one of the other teachers had badly hurt his knee when he was with some students, and that the school was refusing to provide the proper paperwork so that his insurance would pay for it. As a result, a majority of the teachers were going on strike. So instead receiving a new set of irregular verbs to study that morning, I received an up close and personal lesson on labor relations in Central America. Before long rumors were flying through the school that the injured teacher was going to need an amputation on his leg and that the school didn’t care. The local news station showed up and interviewed teachers and students alike, the police showed up and refereed a heated debated between the striking teachers and the administration, and a lawyer appeared and gave his two cents on the legal side of situation. It was quite a show. By one in the afternoon, my housemate and I had seen enough of the three ring circus, so we walked back home for some of Juanita’s delicious home cooking, not knowing what would happen the next day when we came back for classes.

When we arrived Tuesday morning, we were met in the streets by fifteen of the most senior teachers in the school, including our own, who had been fired for going on strike. Turns out things didn’t exactly quiet down over night… We walked in the school to ask what was going on and why they had fired our teachers, and we were joined by all the other frenzied students. First the school hadn’t provided the teacher with health insurance, and now they had fired our teachers for standing up for him. So the school administration stood up and explained to everyone their side of the story, saying that they’d been with the teacher the whole time and that he was going to have the surgery he needed, and that they was forced to discipline the teachers because of the negative light they had cast on the school. They also said that a few of the teachers were trying to take advantage of the situation and somehow get money or other benefits from it. This quieted down a lot of the students, and many of them relented and decided to stay with the school and continue their studies. I and a handful of the other students, though, just couldn’t completely buy the story. Some of the details were seemingly being bent, and some the the other statements were flat out wrong. There were just too many things that seemed a little fishy for me to continue studying at the school. So now, I and a few of the other students continue to meet with the teachers we had at the school who were fired, we just meet them in a different location and study independently. In fact I’m paying much less for the Spanish lessons, and they’re making much more, because all of my money is going directly to them. In my opinion, it’s a good situation for both parties. The lady I have for my classes is a really good teacher, and I’m learning a lot from her, so it’s good for me that I don’t have to change, and it’s good for her that she still has an income for the next few weeks. 

Now that's some tasty cookin right there.

In Latin America it’s not uncommon for employers to take advantage of their employees, nor is it uncommon for the employees to try to do the same. It seems clear that the situation was handled poorly by both parties. The teachers probably didn’t need to call in the tv station, the police, and a lawyer. That might’ve been overreacting… But when the school fired the teachers who were involved, and who also happened to be most senior and some of the best teachers at the school, it struck me much more as a reaction of revenge than anything else.  In addition, his whole story just didn’t quite add up. Was there corruption at the school? And if so to what extent? I’m not exactly sure. The truth probably lies somewhere in the middle of both party’s stories. The bottom line is that it was a great experience for me to see how labor relations down here work. I learned a lot from it, and I’m still getting my Spanish classes. Plus now they are a little bit cheaper, so I can buy a few more of those delicious tostadas the old ladies sell in the streets, and a few more of the cervesas with my friends at the bar around the corner. Life is good…

Summertime in Antigua, and the Livin is Easy

Welp, I believe my first week in Antigua, Guatemala just might have been a success. I am now fluent in Spanish. That’s right, I know everything. Taco, burrito, cerveza, fiesta, oh and uhm… escuela. I think I learned that word too. For those of you not as fluent as me, escuela means school. As in the Spanish language school I attend for four hours every day, which happens to be the whole reason for me coming to Guatemala in the first place. I have a wonderful lady for a teacher named Glendy, who is kind and patient enough to help me struggle through four hours of conversation each morning. She even laughs at my jokes, though I’m quite sure they make absolutely no sense with my limited knowledge of the language. So it’s probably a pity laugh, but I’ll take what I can get at this point. Everyone there is incredibly friendly, and the moment I showed up at the front door I felt welcomed. Even the students are cool for the most part, and probably the neatest thing about it is that they come from all over the world. My best friend here is from Belgium, our two other friends from the school are from Korea and Australia, and several nights during the week we’ll go to the bar or the park or a restaurant with our friends from Canada, Holland, or Germany. The city is a melting pot of tourism, and thanks to its reputation for fantastic language schools there are travelers and students from every corner of the earth here. In fact the other night during dinner our conversation was part in English, part in Spanish, part in German, and part in Flemish. I only understood 25% of it. Maybe I should try to learn some Flemish too.

The courtyard in Juanita's casa in the evening.

The other great thing about my situation in Antigua, is that I’m living in a house with a Guatemalan family. Juanita, an incredible 75 year old grandmother is the main person here, with her daughter Rita usually joining us for a least one meal a day. She has four beds for students who are studying at the school, but currently only I and my Belgian friend Stan are here. The food is spectacular, and probably the healthiest I’ve ever eaten in my life. The big meal of the day is lunch, and it is also the only meal during which we have meat. For breakfast we have eggs with tomatoes and green onions, along with fruit and bread, and for dinner we normally have either beans or rice, bread, and several servings of vegetables. At this point in the story my mom will probably be thinking to herself, “Well, Harrison is starving, cause he loves meat, preferably fried, and tends to shy away from anything green.” And while this usually true, I just don’t have the heart to tell Juanita I’m not going to eat her cooking. Nor do I have the stomach, because if I turned it away I would just go hungry. So here I am eating lettuce, cucumber, and broccoli salads every day for lunch or dinner. This is a big step for me. In addition to learning Spanish in Guatemala, I just might be learning to eat like a more normal, healthy, vegetable-loving human being. But I still wouldn’t say I love cucumbers.

Dusk in Antigua with Agua Volcano in the background.



The city of Antigua itself is also a magnificent place to be, whether attending language school or not. It is a small old colonial town, bursting with brightly colored buildings and pleasant weather. As you walk down the cobblestone streets you are surrounded by buildings painted in bright blues, yellows, and reds, along with towering Spanish ruins where monasteries and churches used to stand. If you look South you will see Agua Volcano rising from the horizon, the closest of three volcanoes within sight of the city. When you pass by Parque Central, the center and focal point of the city, complete with gardens and fountains, you will encounter colorfully dressed women selling blankets or scarves, often with a baby on their back. A large portion of the population here still wears the old style clothes, reminiscent of Spanish conquistadors and indigenous Mayans and all delicately weaved with every color you can imagine. The locals in town are almost always willing to strike up a conversation with the random tourist, and even are willing to put up with my rudimentary, painfully-slow Spanish for at least five or ten minutes. Is this utopia? Absolutely not. Is there poverty and hunger and do tourist sometimes get held up for their wallet and cell phone? Sure, this is a third world country. But as a whole I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the colorful town, beautiful scenery, temperate weather, and welcoming people.

I’ve got plenty more stories, but I think that’s enough typing for one week. Now back to studying my Spanish. Or maybe eating some tortillas and guacamole. Guatemalans make awesome guacamole.   

Panorama of Pacaya Volcano outside Guatemala City. We climbed it this past Sunday.