The Yoof, part I... Visiting Camino Seguro

I took a tour of a volunteer organisations work with kids who´s families depend on scavenging in the massive garbage dump in Guatemala City ... Camino Seguro, aka safe pasage (http://www.safepassage.org/).

Families used to actually live in the massive dump (a good 5 Km square or so) in Guate city, until the combination of a tire fire and underground methane leaks resulted in a massive fire.

(The methane leak was apparently caused by chemical processes happening with all the weird waste they've buried there, and its strange to think of this man made tip having natural processes, like its a real ecosystem, although I suppose it is, even if its made of junk.)

Without anyone keeping check they have no way of knowing how many people died in the blaze. Since then theyve built a wall around it, and theoretically no children are allowed in. However, when the dump trucks (which come in a constant stream) drop off their loads, hundreds crowd round them looking for choice things to eat, use or sell.

Cam Seg pays for the childrens education, (as it´s not free in Guatemala), and provides a place for them to study, and help them with their homework, and compensates their family for the lack of income if one of their kid is no longer helping out, scavening in the dump, etc. They also have more extreme interventions for kids who are abused.

On the chicken bus into Guatemala City I chatted with our tour guide about the recent death of the founder of the organisation, and where it left the project.

I get the impression that the founder, some kind of vaguely hippyish woman from the US, was a micro manager, and an idealist. The guy doing our tour was trying to get more vocational kids of education started, like metal work, bakery, and things the kids might have a chance of being employed for in the near future.
A standard education is obviously vital, but from what I can tell Guatemala´s class system is alive and well, and the more Spanish you look, the richer you are, and the reverse if you have a native/Mayan appearance. I doubt that these kids, with their backgrounds, can walk into office jobs, no matter how qualified.

We saw their first site, a hothouse next to a recycling plant (how apt that the waste is recycled by both machines and the people next door). Its like a warehouse they've tried to make a nursery from, with kids up to about 3 years old.
People are taking pics of the kids, and I cant help but smirk at the swedish guy who brought a swish camera is swamped by kids putting their fingers all over it, pushing the buttons, trying to see their own pictures. He tried to be cool about it, but he so clearly wasn't.

Theyre all so eager to be the centre of attention they push each other out the way, or put their hands in front of shots of their friends. I havent spent enough time with groups of kids to be sure, but I guess this is pretty normnal, and 3 year olds are selfish gits the world round, no matter how rich or poor.

On our way to the newer premsises we get more background, about how the dump has been expanding over the years, again like a natural phenomenon, like a crevice or fault line, which has pushed people into the surropunding areas. There are literally houses of nothing but corrogated iron, whole streets of tinky shacks like that. The man who owns the surrounding property can do nothing about it, and for that reason he gave Cam Seg a 20 year lease of the property for free. The first thing they had to do was build a wall, to stop people putting their shacks there the next time the borders of the dump changed.

When you open the metal security door to the courty yard, its literally like being transported. There's grass and plants and a few bright orange butter flies fluttering about, and clean classrooms as good as any primary school in England, and all these kids up to about 5 or 6 are playing and some are having their hair cut. I think I'd stay here all day and never go home, given the choice.

As we walked to the next site, through cramped streets with teenagers dismantling bits of car parts and other bits of machinery I couldnt recognise, and broken down rusted cars and garbage everywhere, we passed a makeshift basketball hoop, with a few guys playing half-court in the road, and reggaton blaring from somewhere, and for a second we could have been in almost any city in the world.

The final site we visit is for older kids going to proper schools already, with more formalised learning and curiculums. Theres a class going on in the grass area here, where the kids illiterate family members are given Spanish lessons, including a granny of about 60 years old.

They even have an IT room, where the kids can apparently earn Microsoft certification. In the past Ive scoffed at MS as they disguise market dominiation with charity, but I suppose Word and Excel and Powerpoint are possibly the most useful skills to have if you want an office job, and Gates is apparently the worlds bigggest philanthropist or whatever, so Ill cut them some slack.

On the way back for a bus, a man rounds a corner. I´ve gotten used to seeing people carrying rediculously heavy things on their back, often with the aid of a strap around their forehead, but this one still surpruised me: on his back was a coffin.
It looked like it might fall any minute, any I could imagine some corpse tumbling out.

We soon passed his destination: a coffin store. In the whole afternoon, these coffins were by far the most pristine and expensive items to be bought in the area.
It reminded me of a Paul Theroux comment, about the high quality of the cemetaries compared to the houses in Latin America in the 80s: The houses are for a few years at best, but the coffins are forever.

Pacaya Volcano

Guatemala: Volcan Pacaya

I went up an active Volcano yesterday, Pacaya, in Guatemala.
At the bottom, laods of kids tried to sell us walking sticks, and small horses were available for those who couldn´t hack the climb. In fact people brought the horses with them in case we changed our mind half way, and were constnatly calling "taxi, taxi!!."

Near the top the landscape was really strange, these bands of dark black old lava cutting across the soft, green grass. It was like when a dog diggs up a garden, or maybe as if someone had poured crude oil haphazardly all over the place.

Abruptly, the green ended, and qall there was was black rock. We could see in the distance the red lava, and occasionally a boulder would come tumbling down, noisy and smoking. We started up the blakc rock, which was weird stuff: it sounded almost hollow when you walked on it, like it was from a film set or something, and when we were all walking you could constantly hear the weird scraping noise it made, like the sound of fibreglass, or polystyrene. It was so loud it was lieka bad home movie, the blair witch, where you hear every sound like it´s right by your ear.
The stuff was real sharp too, so when the loose rock gave under you, you had to gently put your hand somewhere ot balance you, putting your full weight down immediately would cut your hands up.

There were wierd patterns in thie stuff where Lave had flown and cooled recently, like the bands and ribbons made in the mud by tractors, like a bad glastonbury.


We were getting closer to some real lava flow, and could see the distortions in the air caused by the heat. This is the kind of fun that western health and safety wouldl never allow, people were getting so close to take pictures that the rocks would suddenly fall behyind them and they´d leap away from lava, no joke.

I got close enough to toast some marshmallows, but even with a massive stick it felt like my hands were burning, and I had to half cover my eyes from the hot air and gasses. It was weird, cold one minute, then the wind would suddenly change and you felt like you were in a sauna or a steam room. As we made our way back someoene would occasionally point out a gap in the rock where you could see the bright red molten stuff, and along with the hollow sound beneath our feet, it was like we were walking on a weak surface that might crack at any moment, dropping us into burning hot molten rock.

In short, it was a cool day.

Maximon

This was a mission to another town on the lake, the most indiginous town in the area, or however you put it.

I had one goal: To see the shrine to Maximon, some kind of hybrid deity based on Mayan beliefs, and evolved after Christianity. I had read one paragraph about him, that he was killed every night by Christians or something, and that he returned every morning with a rotten hangover, and a cigar in his mouth.

Arriving on the boat, all the tuk-tuks and kids were asking me "Maximon? See Maximon?" but I never trust that shit, so I went wandering. This town has a history of misery, with massacres during the civil war and mass hurricane damage in the mid nineties... Although compared to the Gringo lagoon I was staying at, it all seemed in quite good repair.

I bumped into a French guy, who I assumed was here for Maximon as well, there wasn´t much else to see in this town. He wasn´t really here for anythgn in particular, so I semi abducted him to give me a travel buddy. I got to the top of the town (all the lake towns start at the shore and have their centres up a hill or slope), where there was a small park and a church.
I asked if this was the Church of Maximon, and a woman laughed at me: "No, es Catholica. " She pointed us in the right direction.

No wonder I amused her, Maximon´s shrine turns out to be a room in a house.
The door is covered with a large sheet, so it´s hard to tell what´s inside. I drag the Franch man inside, and the temperature goes up by like 10 degrees, sweat forming instantly. Inside the room is the statue of Maximon, cigar in his mouth, and a man swinging one of those incence balls around (which makes the place sound a lot biger than it was).

It was so small and intense it was a bit awkward, "I´ve come to visit some statue I know fuck all about. Oh, and take a picture of it. " I felt bad for the Frenchman, I had dragged the poor fucker into a weird situation, and there was nothing he could do but sweat. I noticed in the corner there was a glass mausoleum thing, which upon closer inspection had a statue of dead Jesus. It was weird, like it was a rusted bike or box of old clothes, the way it´d been stashed in the corner there. I think it´s a way to placate the Catholics, as if you´re worshiping both of them. I have a cigarette, as there´s not many holy shrines where you can smoke, I wanted to make the most of it. I took some pictures. The French man looked out of his depth. I probably did too.

We left Maximon, and headed back towards the jetty. We stopped for a beer, and on the tabl enext to us was some kind of psychadelic cowboy. He had a black cowboy hat, and black tgrousers, but his shirt was white and lime green, with strange patterns. His skin was brown, and tight - people here donçt seem to age like us honkies, rather than their skin going flabby and loose it seems to go taught, and when he smiled deep creases formed around the sides of his mouth. To top it all of, one of his eyes was, well, deformed? Pale and milky and grey white. He´d make a great villain in a cowboy movie.
My boat was good to go, and I sat on the roof. It was like surfing across the lake or something, and I could see all these guys in canoes so far out it looked like they were heading for another world, and the mist meant you couldnt see the other side of the lake, it was like seeing some guys paddling across the ocean.

Mystical Volcano Lakes and the lagoon of cainers

My next stop was somewhere on the shores of Lake Atitlan, a lake formed in a volcano crater and surrounded by dormant ones, declared by Aldous Huxley to be thne most beautiful in the world.

I´d been warned not to risk the boat journey in the evening by the owners of the hotel in Antigua:

"At around five, the lake just changes man, the myst like rolls in, and the lake gets this undertowe that can drag boats right down. Don't do it man, i'm not kidding!"

The boat has four rows of seating, most of which is under a plastic roofo with the windows covered with thick pastics. It looks like it could seat 12, and not many more.
It's 4:30pm, it's starting to rain, and we're waiting for a full twelve people to make the journey worth their while.

I'm waiting with Justin; a half bolivian, half american, who started a non profit org in Honduras to help out orphan kids. My predictable life and egocentric travels seem somehow shallow in comparison.

We´re both a little concerned that our cheapness will get us drowned, and saving a few dollars doesn´t seem worth it... but hell, we go for it anyway.

We finally set off, and the majestic green mountains-volcanoes surround us, and a myst does indeed descend, giving them a spooky, mystical appearance. This place is apparently quite sarced to the Mayas and their ancestors, and the local communities still have a lot of indiginous culture.

As the rain intensified, a plastic tarpauilin was pulled out, and stretched across the front of the boat, covering the only opening you could really see through. Cocooned in ghostly white plastic, looking behind me i could see similiarly expectant and tense faces, and the lastraphopic, encapsulated feel was like we were all in some kind of submarine, the outside world just visible through the plastic coverings, like portholes.

Thankfully, we arrive safe and sound, to a small jetty in a remoter, party town in a lagoon on the lake. Wandering around for only a few minutes reveals two things: the place is smelly and dirty, and rife with drugs.

Many buildings are just revealed concrete brick on the exterior, and there´s a lot of corrugated iron actings as walls for half finished buildings or building sites. Even the hotels that look complete - in fact, almost every building- still has metal struts emerging from the roof, as if either a new floor is expected to be built any day now, or they simply couldn´t be arsed with such trivial final touches.

As we turn the first corner from the jetty, we catch a glimpse of a rasta guy selling instruments and other hippified knick knacks has a farewell hand shake with some guy, and it looks like a subtle handover. He then turns from his customer and begins to play the drums and chant. It reminds me of something from the Wire. Within a second I´m propositioned by the pastry ladies, "Quiere pan? Pan de Coco, Pan de Chocolate, Pan de Banan..." this chant becomes background noise here, you can soon tune it out, like radio static.

We find a cheap hotel recommended to us, and meet another guest outside his room, a brit/american, with a nervous, jittery energy. Too much, my friend, too much, I can´t help but think to myself, in the voice of the lawyer from Fear and Loathing.

We blaze a little, hoping for the manager to show up, and just as the effects are kicking in, a woman emerges from upstairs. She´s half asleep, her eyes bleary and red, and her top is up high to reveal a massive pot belly. We´re tryin to check in without bursting out laughing. Later we give her the loving nick name ´Shrek.´ It´s strangly comforting to mock some one, it feels like it´s been too long.

After a little talk wth the Brit-American, rumours are confrmed: All the shiffing in this town is run by a family, some kind of matriarchal mini mafia: I had heard of Granny Gloria as far back as Mexico. In my hotel, there´s some graffiti on the wall, accompanied by a smiley face: "I´m going to Gloria´s, does anybody want anything?" Taxis will even take you to her. Some say her son is the chief of police, some say her husband is the local Vicar.

After a hookah pipe and some thai food (and being offered some more banana bread) , me and Justin go to her place. She´s got a wide face, greying hair, and a kind yet savvy look about her. We´re ushered into the bedroom, where her two daughters are watching tele novellas. Gloria gets out her box, starts weighing, measuring. It´s pretty clear she´s a pro at this, no waffle, no barter, here´s the bags, here´s the prices, and by the way, would you like some of XXX while you´re here?

After a day or two here of living in Gringo village, you begin to get ideas about this place.

Gringos sit side by side with Guatemalan women on the street, both selling their home made beads. Maybe I should be impressed by the cultural interchange, the comradery between gringo and guatemalan, but to be honest I find them comtemptable: leave the little money to be had from street trinkets to the fucking Guatemalans, go home and work in Burger King and earn ten times the wage! Go Home!!! And don´t even get me started on the westerners working in bars that expect tips... but I digress.

The place is filthy, with dog crap and flies every other street. Cockroches are perhaps to be expected, but they don´t help, especially the little flying fuckers.
Some streets have massive pot holes, others barely qualify for the term ´street´ in the first place. It reminds me of that joke that can be rephrased for any town: the best part of the view from London´s SOuth Bank is that you can´t see the south bank. This is painfully true here, find a seat overlooking the lake and you can forget the mess directly behind you. Maybe that´s another reason why the movies are so popular here, anything to distract from the surroundings.

Perhaps this desolation is partly due to hurricane damage, but even so, one thing´s clear: If you want a town with next to no rules run by Gloria, then you get what you wish for: the place seems like the natural conclusion of the cainer life style, with cheap beer and rum and movies in the bars every night, people walking around with nervousd energy or extreme red eye. Like Amsterdam without any class, this town seems to be spiralling toward something ugly.

There´s also a god awful smell around some kind of agricultural equipment, slap bang in the middle of tourist town. It takes me a whle to realise what it is, even when my Spanish teacher in Antigua had mentioned it to me: this is the smell of making coffee, of treating and deshelling the beans. I guess by the time they realised the best place for the tourists was the same place as this exposed, mini factory, there was nothing that could be done. But you feel like the town doesn´t know how to seperate the consumption from the waste, something the west can do amazingly well (reminiscent of the greatest trick the devil ever pulled, perhaps...), hiding the dumps and the waste from plain site as you recklessly add to it without thought.

But here, the double shot cappuchinos are linked to the late night, smelly, noisy bean processing done by drunk Guatemalan guys, leaving piles of coffee husks; the relaxed, hippy vibe inseperable from the pale, red eyed guys wandering around town a bit shaky, clearly heading towards Glorias.

There is some real life here, up the steep slopes away from the shore or further along the shore away from the jetty.

As you get further from the jetty, you come to a loads of massive rocks, quite fun to tackle, but you feel like a bit of an intruder as you pass loads of locals washing their clothes, some women and kids some half naked. I´m sure the guys who sell their beads on the street don´t feel like that, but I don´t even want to muster a polite ´buenas dias´ as it means looking at them going about their business, and I have no idea if this is something that they´d rather keep form prying gringo eyes. I keep my eyes straight ahead, on the big boulders, and the zen like concentration required for traversing them makes me feel something like a child again.

Up the steep slopes around the lagoon is where non gringo related life takes place.
People like me occasionally trudge up there into something approximating the real world, and we must appear like the undesirable neighbours, sweaty, squinting in the sunshine in our identikit shorts and sandals, grunting at people "Donde esta el ATM?"

You frequently hear the locals speaking something that sounds like Hebrew, one of the local native languages. It´s quite disconcerting, after becoming accustomed to the rhythm of Spanish and picking up the familar words and phrases, to be totally in the dark again, especially with a language that sounds so different from what you´ve come to expect.

On the way back from the bank, I heard a strange noise, a rhythmical, metallic clakety-clak-clak-clak, familiar yet antique: I follow, and yes, in between two empty internet cafes is a type writer school, with around 20 kids between nine and 13 or so, all typing away. I don´t think I´ve ever seen so many typewriters. For a second you feel incredibly wealthy.

But hang on, didn´t the Mafia support their neighbourhoods? Does Gloria not invest in her community? Does all this foreign currency do nothing for this town?
Maybe after kick backs to the police and wide screen TVs for showing the pirate DVDs on, there´s nothing left for the people of this town, for street sweepers or computers that aren´t for tourists, only the noise of Western music and the sweaty, hung-over/come-downers, making their way up the steep roads to the ATM. I hope the klackety klac of the typewrites drowns us out.

Semana Santa en Antigua

Antigua, Guatemala is the country´s old capital, (hence the name) and former capital of colonial Central America as a whole.

Not only does it have the beauty you would expect from a Spanish colonial capital, It´s also surrounded by lush hills and volcanos. It´s hard to imagine making somjewhere more scenic even if you planned the entire landscape.

It´s famous for its crazy easter celebrations, or saints week, semana santa, as it´s known here.

One feature of the festivities is the alfombras, or street carpets: Intricate designs and patterns on the streets and the floors of churches, made from sawdust dyed in vibrant colours, flowers, and petals.

http://www.7is7.com/otto/travel/photos/20030504/semanasanta_21alfombrastreet3.html


The construction of these is a mean feat, and the night before good friday nothing really shuts in this town, as everyone´s up to pitch in. Many of these take hours to finish, only to be walked over by the morning processions, after which they just make some more to last till the evenings processions, when they´re marched over again. I´m sure there´s some analogy to all of human endeavour in that, but I can´t be arsed to make it sound good.

Outside every church an impromptu market appears, a labyrynth of stalls with all kinds of foods, meats I can´t even recognise, whole pigs on a spit, sweets and pastries, drinks, and more. My favourite pitches were "Aguas, hay aguas, aguas frias, hay aguas!" and "Incensio Romantico, quatro por cinco"... kind of beats "Three for a fiyvva, three for five paaahnd."

I spent the night wandering the streets and ducking into the bars, buying random foods, and checking the progress of the alfombras.

At three in the morning outside the largest church, a troop of men dressed as Roman legions appears, in two facing lines, leading up to the church. They have uniforms, and spears and standards are held high, and then the Roman cavalry appears. This troop marches through the streets, and without daylight, the sound of horses hooves and spears and boots hitting the cobbled streets, and lights reflecting of the armour that looks passably real if you don´t inspect too closely, you can almost suspend disbelief as you follow the legion as it marches through town, tstopping at the four corners of the town to read the scroll that proclaims the crucifiction of Jesus by Pontius Pilate. To be honest, that was probably my favourite part of the whole thing, imagining the cavalary charging down the streets at a phalanx division, but I don´t think that´s the intent.

At five in the morning as it begins to get light, the main procession begins, as massive floats, carried by thirty or so people on each side all dressed in robes of vidid purple, with statuary and illustratiopns of Jesus on them, are led through the streets, accompanied by children with placards and incence bearers, destroying the alfombras.

In the evening, when Jesus is officially dead, the processions become slower and more sombre, and all are dressed in black: literally hundreds of womenm, of all ages, form the roots to the shoots, are dressed in black with intricate lacey head scarves.

And these things are literally carried around from 5am to 2am, you can´t cross town without gettting stuck alongside one.

At 1am, I was in a a club, dancing to reggaeton, and when I left I was confronted by horders of people in the black robes hoisting their float with Jesus´s body in the air, and hymns being sung.

A strange contrast...