Happy Birthday Victoriano!

My best friend here in Ixtahuacan, Victoriano, recently turned 59. He invited me to have a birthday breakfast with him (beef stew), and I brought him a cup of thick, rich hot chocolate, which is typically of celebrations here. Here is Victoriano 'mugging' it up for a birthday photo with me, Axwan.

Xeabaj Community Assembly

My eyes strained forward into the thick fog as I guided my bike through the turns in the mountain road. The fog gets as thick as a pall of smoke up here in the highlands of Alaska, reducing visibility to a few meters at times, so I was hoping to avoid a collision with an oncoming pickup, a pedestrian, wandering pig, etc. I was en route to Xeabaj I, a village of some 100 families, to a community assembly very much like the one in Pacamán that I recounted on this page in December. I wheeled into town and towards the church, rolling over soft pine needles strewn on the street. Their rich aroma hung in the damp air.

I was surprised and quite pleased to see that the community was already assembled when I arrived. I greeted some of the men I knew from the development committee, and we began the meeting. The bulk of the conversation debated whether acquiring corrugated sheet metal to fix leaky roofs or constructing a health clinic was a more pressing need for the community. I followed along the best I could, though at times I had my friend Juan had to translate from K’iche to Spanish for me. The cold fog came up out of the valley, and the people shivered, huddling down deeper into their clothes. Mostly the men spoke, but a couple of women gave their opinions as well.

After some time nobody else spoke and Juan looked at me. “They want the roofs,” he said. I suggested we do a vote just to be sure, and we saw there was nearly unanimous support. Many folks raised both their arms and called out to show their enthusiasm, and despite the wet chill the atmosphere was quite festive.

The next step is to guide the community development committee through the preparation of an application to a government agency that could provide subsidized roofing materials. Xeabaj I is also participating in my reforestation project , and in two weeks all the men and I will head up to a nearby mountaintop to enclose the spring that provides the village with water with barb wire and to prepare the land for tree-planting in May.

After the meeting ended I wheeled my bike back up to the main road, a pack of twenty children close behind. I politely declined some invitations to play ball; it was getting late and I didn’t want to get caught in the dark on the way home. I pedaled through foggy fields and forests, breathing clouds and mountain air, crunching gravel beneath my tires.

Leaf Litter Lug

This year the centerpiece of the environmental education program I organize in four elementary schools will be vegetable gardens. We will be planting the gardens in May when the rains come, but the preparations have already begun. Last week I took all my schools out into the forest to gather leaf litter so that we can start compost piles. Field trip!

We set off walking for a good 45 minutes before we got to decent forest in each of the four communities. This is because the highlands of Alaska where the villages are situated have been completely deforested for decades, converted to crop fields and pastureland. But it’s always good to get the kids out for a hike.

Once we arrived in forest that offered decent organic material, we instructed the children to start collecting it in the sacks they had brought along. Some were a bit bashful at first; others tore off into the underbrush as if we had told them there were candy bars hidden under the leaves.

Kids are cute when they are bashful.

Sooner or later they all got down to it. Here are three boys from Pacutama I having a competition to see who can gather the most litter.

The teachers and I exploited the opportunity to sneak in some messages about ecology, resource management, and other themes that sprang out at us. Here Professor Genaro translates my explanation of nutrient cycling and composting.

At a different school I talk about the importance of giving newly reforested areas special care.

Soon the children had gathered enough material and we began the trek back to school. Mayans carry heavy loads either atop their heads, or balanced on their backs and braced with a strap across their brows. Even the little ones carry something!

After Holy Week vacation we will start the compost piles and break open the sod to reveal the rich, dark earth. We will also have to fence them off with barbwire to protect the gardens from hungry sheep. As we hoofed back to school under the high-altitude sun, I smiled, thinking of all the fun and learning we have ahead of us.

A Ride on the Camioneta

I hail down a bus and jump on board, laden down with produce I just bought in the market. Excusing myself as I squish past other passengers, I squeeze up the narrow aisle of the ancient school bus. Long ago deemed unsafe to transport North American school children, it found a new life in Guatemala as a chariot of the masses. Here, we call them camionetas. I look for a spot to shove my purchases into the overhead rack; nada. I push back to the front and ask if I can leave my stuff there. “Where are you going?” the driver’s helper asks me. “Alaska,” I respond. “Alaska? No, no, we’re not stopping there. Get off.”

The bus screeches to a halt and I trundle off, cursing the bus crew loud enough for them to hear. They will be driving right past my town, but for some reason that I can’t understand some of the drivers don’t like to stop at the top of the mountain pass where Nueva Ixtahuacán is located. The driver has put me off at the bottom of a valley where no other buses will stop, so I lug my bags 2 km up a hill to the next stop. I arrive sweating, and keep a sharp eye out for a bus headed my way. Every company has its own distinct exterior design, so that from the wild and colorful paintjob one can discern the bus’ route. From a distance I see a red and green Sinaloa tearing around the corner. I consider not waving it down; the Sinaloa is known for high speed and reckless passes, and last month a good friend of mine watched in horror as a Sinaloa tried to take a mountain curve to fast and flipped off the roadway, killing four passengers. But never knowing when the next one will come, I give a lazy flick of my wrist and hop aboard the still rolling bus.

Once we get out on the highway the driver’s helper comes around collecting fares. I put a bill in his hand and tell him my stop, expecting a few coins back as change. But he tries to push past me to the next row without giving me anything. “How much are you charging me?” “Ten.” “But the fare is seven.” “No, it’s ten.” The exchange continues for a few more moments, and I purposefully raise my voice a bit so that the other passengers will hear what is going on. After the helper makes it clear that he won’t be giving me my change, I call him a thief and thank him kindly for robbing me. All around me I notice that the passengers look very uncomfortable. While they all know the fares as well as I do and realize that he overcharged me, bearing witness to someone speaking out against injustice really makes them squirm. This culture of silence, perhaps largely a product of the repressive 36 year civil war, is part of why killers are convicted in only 2% of the murders that happen on a daily basis. So to some extent I think it is good for a busload of people to see some weirdo demand his change. Besides, at this point, I’m mad as hell. No matter how many times I get overcharged on a bus, it still makes my blood boil.

But I accept the loss and look at the window as the bus speeds past bare corn fields and adobe houses. In the city the day was warm, but a chilly breeze cycles through the bus as we climb higher and higher into the mountains. Finally pine forests give way to steppe-like grasslands and the road tops out in the highlands of Alaska. I grab my baggage and bumble to the door, futilely ask for my change one last time, and hop down onto the gravel shoulder. When the thick black diesel smoke from the Sinaloa dissipates I carefully scurry across the highway and start the 1km march to Ixtahuacán. The fog blows around me, thick and luxurious, leaving tiny droplets in my beard and eyebrows. I gulp at the thin mountain air, fresh and cold. For a moment the clouds part and I see a golden arc of late-afternoon sunlight cut across the valley below. Suddenly I am again enveloped, and I walk blindly on the familiar path towards the village. I am home.

The cone of a nearby volcano as seen from Alaska.