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4 September 2005 |
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Please keep the displaced and the suffereing and grieving in your thoughts and prayers this coming week. New Orleans will never be the same, and countless lives have been destroyed. I am grateful that the people I care about all left the city. It even appears that damage done to our neighborhoods is minimal. But we are the exceptions, and an awful lot of people will be building from scratch. After watching the news for the past two weeks, it seems almost silly to write about the time I spent with my folks here in Guatemala. The two-week "vacation" ended up being a crazy haze of "it's Tuesday; this must be Belgium". We walked everywhere – to the apartment, to the ruins in Antigua, to market, to check e-mail, to Jeanne's house, to breakfast, lunch and dinner. After a full season of whining about food, I can brag again. While the folks were here, I ate some of the best meals of my life. At the outset, I had a diet of meat. It was three days before my brain allowed me to want anything besides protein and iron, and a week before I had a vegetarian meal. And I still have not had a scrambled egg.... The first few days were spent wandering around in the highlands. We stayed pretty close to the hotel (eating and living in Casa Santo Domingo is such a chore...), just letting us all get our feet under us. Mom and Dad had just done a trip to Romania, followed by a trip to Boston, and then came to try out Guate. But we wandered around for a while to get the feel of the city, and Mom and Kathe bought textiles. Those of you who have been here know of the sensory overload that occurs at the artisan market. Take two artists and turn them loose, well, the results are pretty frightening. It isn't so much the money they spent (but it is such a wonderful deal, don't you see, and if I were to work for a month on a tapestry...) but what to do with them. Even after buying gifts for people we have not yet met. And then when we got to Chichicastenango, let me just say that it was difficult getting the suitcase closed at the end of the trip, and only part of that was coffee from the coffee plantation we visited. Time in the Petén was spent panting a little more. After introducing my folks to the beauty of walking everywhere with no oxygen (Antigua is about a mile high), I got to introduce them to the jungle again. We walked over Tikal, Trinidad, and Yaxhá, and even coaxed everyone, even a severe acrophobe, up to the top of a couple of really tall structures. Temple IV at Tikal is just about as high as it gets, and the drop off from the top of the principal structure at Yaxhá is pretty terrifying. But the view from both is amazing*. It does not appear that the filming of Survivor did much damage to the site, and it is still my favorite of the sites in the Petén. Interspersed with walking all over creation for days on end were some more fabulous meals (as well as some forgettable ones). But for the most part, we ate like kings. For one night, we stayed at a still-under-construction hotel called Casa las Americas next door to the camp. The couple who took care of us there were wonderful. Jean Luc and his wife Lori were amazing – they cooked us meals to die for, and made sure we had what we needed. When the construction is finished, and the water pressure is enough to shower (our one complaint), the hotel will be among the finest anywhere. Just beautiful. We also ate at Carlos' house, and we brought the ice cream. It was a wonderful evening, and we have a large number of fabulous pictures of the kids and the adults all having a great time. We ended up spending very little time in the Petén, and proceeded back to the highlands, where we continued our walking tour of everything for the two days before everyone, sadly, went home. The time since then has been a blur of packing (we are giving up the apartment, and have to move the artifacts) and watching CNN and Fox. The hurricane was as amazing and horrific a disaster as I could ever have imagined. The focus has always been on getting traffic leaving the city to flow more easily – we have had a number of evacuations before, and every one of them resulted in calls for better control of the traffic. But because all of the evacuations were "fire drills", the issues that got addressed involved getting vehicles out of the city, and not the poor people who failed to evacuate. I honestly believe that because the previous drills were false alarms, the only people truly inconvenienced by the drills were those whose loud voices were later heard, complaining about sitting in traffic for hours. As a result, traffic flow was amazing. Over 80% of the inhabitants of New Orleans fled the city in a very orderly fashion, much more quickly than any of the previous attempts. But because none of the hurricanes responsible for the previous evacuations resulted in the flooding of the city, the plight of those who stayed behind were not truly addressed. The horrific display on CNN has shown the result of that oversight. The media coverage has not addressed the entire city, though. Uptown has been conspicuous in its absence from the overhead shots. My suspicions were confirmed when I was directed by a friend to the http://ngs.woc.noaa.gov web site. A large part of Uptown New Orleans is dry and undamaged, including both my house and GM's house. Dry, undamaged houses don't make the evening news, and so the coverage of the newscrews failed to include my neighborhood. I am pretty glad of that. It does not make the suffering any less (most of the shots you do see come from about a mile from Earth Search, where I worked last year), and I would never diminish the true suffering that is going on. People are dying, people are sick, and people are really displaced. But the media are also making it seem even worse than it is. If I saw the statistic "80% of New Orleans is currently under water" one more time (80% of New Orleans is under water with every spring rain that comes through) I was going to scream. Please remember those who are left behind. Life in New Orleans is going to be incredibly difficult for the foreseeable future.
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21 September 2005 |
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I have to admit that it is hard to write about the struggles of life in Guatemala, when there are real struggles going on in New Orleans and along the Gulf Coast. Even so, things are going on that are funny or painful or both, and besides, I like telling stories... My family is fine. All my friends, including Redius (a guy that worked with me at Earth Search and who stayed in New Orleans through the storm) are safe and sound. Some made it out of New Orleans with very little of their possessions, and others are looking at a long period of clean-up of houses and apartments. But they are safe. Stuff can always be repurchased. Kathe's son Gianmarco went back in to see his house, located about 8 blocks from my house. What greeted him was revolting. Mud, filth, mildew and mold and buckled floorboards were awaiting his arrival. He grabbed some things and immediately headed back to SC. Another friend of mine went back and found a body in his front yard. Each story I hear is more horrific than the previous one. And it will get even worse. Gianmarco mentioned that the fronts of buildings are marked to indicate whether anyone was found inside when they broke in – a sort of grim goy Passover. According to all reports, my house suffered no harm. While I am relieved that the damage to my own recently renovated home is minimal, I feel guilty even worrying about that when other people are looking for kin. But when (if) I go back to New Orleans, I figure it will be a cinch to get a job with a carpenter on a part-time basis, making a good living while using the rest of my time to write the dissertation. The rebuilding is going to take time, and it is going to be a tough road. But I have no doubt that it will be rebuilt, and New Orleans will be beautiful again. Meanwhile, back in Guatemala, life has been pretty crazy. After finishing packing the artifacts in the apartment, I went on an overnight bus to Flores to retrieve the car, picked up Christina and came back. We packed up the personal stuff and cleaned the apartment once Matt returned, and put everything on a flete and drove back to Petén. Originally, we asked for permission to move artifacts from Antigua to Petén, and to move the lithics back from Petén, all in the same trip. The return trip was turned down. They do not want artifacts from the same project in different locations. Understandable, I suppose, but it sure makes things more difficult for me, since I already set up a lab in Antigua in anticipation of working here for the fall. Matt originally thought that we could request permission for a separate move later, and maybe get it. Now, after talking with our contact in IDAEH, he is not so sure. Seems that the bureaucrats in charge are continuing to work as hard as possible to make life more difficult for this project. The trip to Peten started off well. We had the paperwork faxed over to us by IDAEH at 10:00 am, exactly 1-1/2 hours after it was promised (and 3 hours before we expected it), so we were off to a predictably early start. Then we went to Fredy and Antonia's house in the capital to pick up some furnishings that they wanted to send to the lab house. Still, we left the capital at noon on a trip that even worst-case scenarios had us arriving in Sta. Elena around 9:00 pm. What we didn't count on was that the drivers of the truck would make life more difficult. About three hours from our destination, they slowed down to about 30 mph, on a road that can safely be traveled at 60. There was nothing wrong with the truck, and we have no idea why they did it. Only two options have occurred to us: to put off unloading until the morning, or to save gas. Either way, they failed. They even took a wrong turn (these guys drive this trip regularly – it had to be intentional) and headed us off in the wrong direction for a half hour. By the time we finally got to the lab house, it was 10:30. They were surprised that we were not happy about the trip. We unloaded the truck, finishing around midnight, and sent them packing, so to speak. After a couple of alcoholic beverages, we headed to bed ourselves. The next day was spent putting tables and shelves together, along with organizing the artifacts and cleaning the lab house, which has been recently completed and never lived in. And Sunday morning I grabbed Benito, one of our friends who has helped us for years (and who had never been to Antigua), and drove back to Antigua, stopping at Quirigua (a stunning small Maya site with huge stelae), two roadside fruit stands (grapes and pineapples were purchased) and at a roadside police stand. Shakedown. The cop asked me for my car papers. I handed over the title and the papers issued at the border. He then waited expectantly. I asked if there was anything else he needed. The rest of my car papers included my passport and my circulation card. After Benito explained to me a couple of things that he was asking for, he decided to divide and conquer. I went back to the police vehicle with him while Benito was shaken down by the other cop. Yep, that policeman in Zacapa was as sorry as he could be that he had to write me a ticket for driving without a "circulation card" which allows me to drive in Guatemala. When I protested that no such card was issued at the border, where the bureaucracy functions solely to provide tourists with as many stumbling blocks as possible, the cop quickly changed tactics. "You have no front license plate." Almost a conversational tone. No, I explained, they don't issue front plates in Louisiana. If I were to have a front tag, that would be illegal. "But here, it is required to have a front plate. I am going to have to write a ticket for the infraction." At this point, there was no question about what was going on. He did not want to write the ticket, because there would be no money in that for him. He wanted the money up front and under the table. And I did not want to give it to him. In my best Spanish of the year (my Indignant Spanish is quite fluent) I asked him why he would do this. In a country where everyone wants the tourists to come back, why is he picking on me? I am visiting a friend, we were in Petén, he is riding back to Antigua with me, we visited Quirigua, and now you want to write me a ticket for doing nothing illegal? I was persuasive, I was indignant, I was convincing. And still he kept coming with the ticket. He even went so far as to tell me that it was his responsibility to write the ticket, because the jobs of the police are to protect, serve, guide, assist, and.... I politely exploded. "And exactly which of these things are you currently doing?" I asked. Are you protecting the cars with front plates from those without? Or are you serving me by giving me a ticket for being a tourist in your country? When I got to the border," I continued, "the officials gave me all the paperwork I needed to drive in the country, and told me 'Welcome to Guatemala'. And you want to undo this by harassing me while I am traveling legally through your country?" I still can't believe I actually said that. Meanwhile, Benito was getting grilled, too. "Show me your cedula." A cedula is a personal photo ID card that everyone has to carry – used to cash checks, get employment, whatever. Benito handed it over, and was immediately challenged. "It looks nothing like you," he was told. After being satisfied that the picture on the cedula was, in fact, José Benedicto Alonzo Gutierrez, the cop started in on asking about me. Where are you going together? What does he do? How long have you worked together? When it was obvious he was getting nowhere with that line of questioning, the fishing expedition continued. He asked about the cooler in the back seat. "You wouldn't happen to be carrying venison in the cooler, would you?" "Cokes only," Benito said. "Why would we carry venison? It is illegal. He is a foreigner, and would get caught. I am a national, and it is illegal for me to transport venison." Officer Olby was making sure, and it was about four or five hours later that Alice (remember Alice?).... Another Zacapa police pickup truck pulled up, and the cop grilling me held up one finger, and went over to talk to the boss. When he came back, he handed me my passport, driver's license, title, car papers, and smiled and said "We are here to serve you. Please have a safe trip." I said thanks, and offered him a coke, which he accepted (and for which the boss lifted a single eyebrow) and we drove on, without paying the first quetzal in bribe money. We laughed the rest of the way to Antigua.
so to keep it running, but there were less expensive options available until Matt could see it. As I have mentioned before, the deal with his car has been an issue all year. He left it behind when he last came to the US, which meant that he did not renew the paperwork every 30 days like you have to. At that point you are in a Catch-22. To get it renewed, it has to be renewed. The paperwork has to be in order to get it to the border, and you have to get it to the border to take care of the paperwork. And all that has to be done before you can sell it. After hiring several people to get the stuff done, the field season came and went without resolving the car issue, and now he just wants to unload the behemoth Toyota Land Cruiser for whatever he can get, to fund the rest of his time in Guatemala. So to help him out, I am driving an unregistered vehicle to its new home, while being followed in my car by an unlicensed (and decidedly unskilled) driver. The fact that I escaped with only one long scrape down the side of the vehicle is pretty amazing. All the same, I was glad to have Benito back in the copilot seat helping me drive, rather than in the driver's seat of my car while I was driving Matt's. "¡Dale, dale, dale!" The official cry of the copilot in Guatemala is heard all over. "Dale" (dah'-leh), literally translates as "Give (to) it", or idiomatically, "Hit it!" Guys who help you park your car (for a fee) and watch it (fee-bly) while you are inside and maybe wash it (more fee-bull) fill the air with cries of "Dale" while they are "helping" with the parking of the car. I am relatively certain that none of them have ever sat behind the wheel of a car, because it is obvious that "Dale" would not make an appearance in the majority of those helpful interactions. Oddly enough, there appears to be no antonym to the word. No matter what you are currently doing with your vehicle, the respose is inevitably "Hit it!" Which, sometimes, you do. Matt and I have discussed this tendency among Guatemalans to the amusement of us both. We finally decided that the main reason that the Guatemalans do not have an Air Force of any consequence is that the copilot would only give the one command. Like pulling out of a parking lot, like parallel parking, like driving in traffic, even like negotiating a blind curve, a Guatemalan copilot would be responsible for giving the single command. "¡Dale!" So I am now taking that advice, and starting serious work on the analysis. Dale, indeed. Crorey
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9 October 2005 It has been quite some time since I last wrote. Fortunately, there is not much to report. Kathe arrived in Antigua safely, if a little worn out from a rough trip, between the weather delays and a very rough landing or two. But she did arrive, and has settled into a routine of working with me combined with rituals of daily living. The main issue so far is that she has not seen the Guatemalan sun since she got here. It has rained non-stop. It was raining before Stan hit, but Stan, as has been reported in the news, has brought rain to a new level. And it lingers. I have teased her that I am sending her back to the US, just to get rid of the rain. What is she, a hurricane magnet? We are definitely in the market for an ark, just in case. The destruction around us is pretty awe-inspiring, for a hurricane no bigger than Stan was. It did not touch Antigua, but all around there have been landslides, mudslides, raging rivers and death. It makes me very grateful that all we are dealing with is the discomfort of having to bring an umbrella with us everywhere we go. But the umbrella is not the only side effect. On consecutive days, I went into the bathroom, only to find a very large cockroach that had come in seeking refuge from the rain (along with myriad other critters). Now mind you, I am not the sort who begrudges animals shelter wherever they can find it. Nor am I particularly freaked out by roaches. But there are limits. The first one I saw I quickly squooshed, then spent some time cleaning up the very juicy remains. The second one was the one that bothered me. I had grabbed my toothbrush, and was performing some pre-bed ritual ablutions of the mouth when I noticed the cockroach. It was in the toothbrush holder. My ablutions stopped abruptly. Suddenly, brushing my teeth had less appeal. The cockroach began to climb up one of the other toothbrushes. I, horrified, grabbed the toothbrush and started to shake it to free it of cucaracha. The roach had other designs; it clung on and continued its way upward, to perceived safety. Very quickly, I found myself in too close proximity to an otherwise beautiful insect, and flung both toothbrush and cockroach across the bathroom. From the other side of the door, Kathe, who had been following my activities by listening to my running commentary, suggested hairspray. I promptly applied hairspray to the critter, whereupon he froze, and I allowed him to join his mate, well squished and cleaned up after, disposed of in the garbage can. Fortunately, we have the strongest antiseptic known to humankind. My uncle Oregon has distilled some wonderful moonshine, brought down by Kathe to replenish my supply. The toothbrushes stayed in the alcohol for 24 hours. Kathe's arrival has been wonderful, on a number of counts. I am working much harder on the analysis now, and am making real progress on what lithics there are here in Antigua. But in my down time, I am also rediscovering Antigua. It is a small town, and, although there is a lot to see, I tend to find myself in familiar paths when I am alone. Since she has arrived, I walk routes I had not traveled, discovering hidden treasures everywhere, including ruins, restaurants, art vendors, and antique dealers. Last night we tried out one of our finds, a lovely little one-roomed Italian restaurant called Vinoteria on the outskirts of the city, and had a wonderful meal of pizza and wine. We took a break Friday afternoon to look at some ruins down the street named Sta. Clara. The gardens were spectacular, see attached photos, although the photos do not do it justice, and I found a couple of obsidian blades together with some majolica eroding out of the ground. Long-term occupation here. We also took a night walk down to the center of Antigua to take some photos there. I have included a shot of the fountain and the cathedral at night, both of which are stunning in the twilight. Meanwhile, back in New Orleans, life is pretty tough. We have been getting reports from friends and family alike that the damage done to houses all around us was pretty spectacular. Edna Charles, a friend with a house on Nashville Ave., sent some pictures along that were simply horrifying. Couches that had floated around in a pond of sewage in the middle of the living room, which were then left to dry in the humid heat. Mold city. Don said it was like going into a psychedelic bar – so many colors of mold growing on everything. GianMarco said the same thing. After he went in to check his house, he came back with horror stories, as well, of truly repulsive sights within the city, and also in his house. He meets with the insurance adjuster tomorrow to discuss how much insurance will pay. And that seems to be a prevailing theme. How much will insurance cover, and how much will they try to get away without paying. I contend that the current view of Katrina is too public - insurance companies can ill afford to fail to cover what they said they would cover. The profile is simply too high, and access to the media is shared by many. And, of course, vultures are circling - I mean, lawyers are looking for clients. Anyway, I hope that all of you are safe, and dry. My best from soggy Antigua, Crorey
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23 October 2005 |
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Fe en Dios, y ¡Adelante! (Trust in God, and Full Speed Ahead) We met the author of the book by that name this past week. While perusing the book offerings of a nice little art shop here in Antigua, we ran across the book, which is a collection of dichos written across the front (and sometimes back) of buses and trucks in Latin America. Much like its predecessor, written by the late Dr. Edmonson, this book offers an interesting view of the wonderful sense of humor, religious devotion, and love that is so specially latino. Some examples are: TBC y TDG (Te Besé y Te Dejé – I kissed you and left you) ME 109 CITO (Me Siento Nuevocito – I am feeling renewed) Soy Feo Pero Sabroso (I am ugly but tasty) Si Sufres con El, Ven Conmigo! (If you suffer with him, come with me!) Recently, the buses and trucks are becoming less commonly decorated, and the dichos are becoming less common. But I was excited to see the book, and picked it up to thumb through it, when I noticed the name of the author. His name is Grant La Farge. Now La Farge is not a very common surname, and the blurb on the back said that Grant was born in 1928, shortly after the director of Tulane's Middle American Research institute (then DMAR – Department of Middle American Research) co-authored and published a two-volume set of explorations in Mesoamerica called Tribes and Temples. The other author was Oliver La Farge, Pulitzer Prize winner for his novel Laughing Boy. I interrupted a conversation between Kathe and the owner of the shop to show her the book and ask if she thought he was the son or nephew of the famous writer and explorer, and the owner said "Oh, you can ask him yourself on Monday. He will be here on a visit." She called us on Tuesday to tell us that he had arrived, and we went over to meet him. He was a delightful gentleman, and regaled us with stories for a half hour of his Uncle Inkie (the family's nickname for Oliver), his father Christopher (who won every other award but the Pulitzer for his own writing) and of growing up in a family of writers and travelers. We also met his wife, Patricia Arscott La Farge, who is a textile collector and who has become well known in the field by studying the textiles in a number of collections and museums. She and her family were neighbors to William Spratling (another Tulane/New Orleans connection) in Taxco, Mexico, and she grew up with all of the members of the group immortalized in Spratling and Faulkner's collaboration Sherwood Anderson and Other famous Creoles , further immortalized in the Faulkner novel Mosquitos. A delightful couple, who have spent a lot of time becoming friends with people all across Latin America. Kathe and I also went out on a date Saturday night after work to hear a classical guitarist named Tito Santis. He was marvelous. He performed for two hours, playing pieces from Brasil, Peru, Spain, Mexico, the US, and Guatemala. It was truly beautiful. The poor car has been a problem ever since it survived a really tough field season. The continuing problem – the wiggly steering wheel, first mentioned in the June 12 entry – was pronounced in need of a total replacement by the last mechanic to work on the car, Don Chomo. Don Chomo did some nifty work quite cheaply for Matt, and I like him. But he overcharged me a bit, by Chapin standards, for replacing oil and a couple of rubber widgets. But he was nice about it, and told me that the wiggling steering wheel was a problem in need of a total replacement of the steering column. So after letting the car sit in the garage at Jeanne's for a couple of days, Kathe convinced me to take it to get it really fixed. Which became a little more imperative once the battery died. Again. It had died after sitting in Petén for a week or two, unused, and had not given me any trouble after that. But a few days of inactivity, and it reacted like I do the morning after the first day of exercise. Would not turn over. So I took it out, and reached for the wonderful plug-in charger that my father-in-law gave me before I came down to Guatemala. I am still reaching. It may be in the toolbox in the Petén, but I am not sure. Found a decent mechanic through a friend, who made a house call to replace the battery, and we brought the now-functioning vehicle to their shop. They looked at the steering wheel, and said "No problem!" I always worry when I hear that expression.
They actually got the steering column off – a problem which plagued all of the mechanics I had dealt with to this point – and pointed to two broken pieces. This, intoned Ricardo, is where the problem is. I knew he was lying when he said there was no problem. The part had to be picked up from Guatemala. Two days later, he informed me that the part did not exist in Guatemala, and that we would either have to wait 45 days for it to come in from the US, or, gulp, buy a new steering column and replace it. Forty five days is too long, and I have to take the car to the border this weekend. So the obvious choice is the replaced steering column. I give the go-ahead, and they ordered and replaced it, fixing the problem. Mostly. Except that now the key doesn't fit, unless you pull back on the steering wheel and then push forward, then pull, squint, wiggle your nose at twice the speed of the steering wheel.... The Blazer stays another couple of days to replace the key assembly. Finally the car is liberated from its prison (I think it just likes the company of other cars) and we drive away to pick up some groceries. And, for the first time in months, I am able to make use of the guy who stands on the corner, yelling "par-KAY-O". We dicker over a price for him to watch and wash the car, inside and out. Thirty minutes later, he is still not done (it was pretty dirty) and Kathe and I walk to the market on the corner to kill a few more minutes. When he was done (well, mostly – much of the car was still dirty, but we were tired of waiting), we paid him, and watched him run away, presumably to wash other cars (don't the guys usually help you out of your parking space as part of the deal?) Then I found out why. I got Kathe safely into her side, and hopped into the car, slammed the door open, and Tried again to close the door. The guy had stuck the mechanism needed to close the door. My door would not close. Back to the garage. He fixed the problem that afternoon, and didn't charge me. And now my car is drivable, and I can make the trip to the border today. I hope. Kathe is still getting used to the critters, even as infrequent as they are in Antigua. She was on the roof washing some lithics for me, wearing a baseball cap to keep from getting sunburned again. She was really into a rhythm, and was enjoying being outside. At this point, the narrative gets a little incoherent. The bill of the cap had produced a nice enough perch, but apparently Charlotte wanted to get a better view of her host. And she spun just enough thread to dangle at eye level for a moment. The rest of the day was spent cleaning up the roof. Curds and whey everywhere. On the analysis front, I am ploughing through the piles of artifacts in front of me, and making some headway, albeit at a much slower pace than I had hoped. Some of the stuff I have been finding is wonderful, either as really cool artifacts or for what it means. One of the pieces I was analyzing looked very familiar, and I started rooting around in the pile of completed pieces, and pulled out the one I was looking for. The materials used were identical, and looked like they came from the same piece – a core and a flake. The excavators of this unit were not careful, and you can almost always find a piece with a good Yovany fracture (an unmodified cobble that had been split with the pick used in excavation). I refitted the flake and core together, but they did not have the characteristic metal stain at the point of impact. Then I turned it over, and found that the flake had been heavily retouched. Hands shaking, I called everyone I knew, the moment I figured it out. One of the things I have wanted to demonstrate was whether the materials were being manufactured in the place they were being used, whether they were making tools and sharing them with neighbors, or whether they were producing tools for export. I just didn't have expectations of finding it quite so clearly. The flake had been struck off of the core. The flake had then been modified. Whatever use they had for the flake (that will be the final part of my analysis, to determine use wear on the tools) had taken place right there (cutting, chopping, whatever). Then the piece had been discarded. And I had together in one lot the evidence of all parts of the process. Other nice bits have come through, as well. Cleaning one lot of lithics, I removed mud from a beautiful piece of a polished pyrite, cut and polished into a perfect pentagon. Other tools and utilized flakes and drills permeate the lots. And there are distinct differences among and between the lots. So I am getting what I wanted. It is just taking a long time. One final anecdote, coming from SC. My 5-year-old grandson Remi decided that he wants to be an astronaut. So when he balked at doing his homework, deciding that he really didn't need to learn to read, Gianmarco reminded him that astronauts need to learn to read and write so that they can read the flight manuals to learn how to fly the ship. "Hmmm. Well, dad, I like to draw. And you draw houses. I can do that without learning to read." "The person who makes the drawings of houses is called an architect. And they need to be able to do all kinds of math, but they also need to be able to write, to explain to the carpenters what they want the house to look like. They have to be able to read and write, too." "Well, OK, then. I'll just be an archaeologist." "Why?" "All they have to do is dig around in the dirt."
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30 October 2005 |
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So the week was an interesting one. I always find myself writing about food (anyone know of a newspaper that needs a street-vendor food critic?), but this week was special by all accounts. Not because of the restaurants we tried, but for the food we ate at home. Dona Anamaria fixed a chicken creole cacciatora that was divine. In a pretty typical middle class move, we feel uncomfortable with the concept of servants, so we fix our meals, wash our clothes, make our beds, and pretty much leave Dona Ana with little to do, except hang out with us and try to intercept trips to the laundry room. But Kathe decided that we needed to try some true Chapin Cuisine, and so asked Dona Anamaria to prepare some dishes for us. Antigua's restaurants are wonderful, but reflect a more international than traditional fare. What she fixed was a tomato/tomatillo based chicken estafado, served with rice, tortillas, and a fiery repollo (a cole-slaw like mixture made of cabbage, peppers, carrot slices and onion) that left us gasping for breath. Yes, even me - after a couple of bites, I found myself reaching for the tortillas. That stuff was just hot. I also tried my hand at making tortillas. It seems so easy: you pat a ball of cornmeal dough until it is flat. But it also involves thinning out the dough evenly (and making a round, flat object). It is much easier with a tortilla press, but the results do not taste as good. They do, however, cut the blaze from a good fiery repollo equally well. Friday night, emboldened by my attempt at making tortillas, I decided to expand my repertoir and I tried my hand at making ceviche. As I mentioned before, I have a little bit of reluctance in terms of eating raw shellfish quite so far from the ocean. It is close, but not quite close enough to a natural source of shellfish to make me comfortable. But the ceviche I have tried here in Guate has been pretty good, so I tried my hand at making it myself. First, we stopped by the store and got all the other ingredients (tomatoes, spring onions, jalepenos - limes and cilantro grow at the house), then stopped by the seafood place to get the shrimp, taking the opportunity to sing with/to Coco the dog. Yes, O Best Beloved, the dog loves opera. He will sing along with you as you belt out something from Die Zauberflote or Carmen. He prefers mezzo sopranos, though, not baritones. And, also sings along with ambulance sirens, so there is no claim that he has an ear for quality music... but he does sing along. After preparing the ceviche, I have to brag a little. All hands are still accounted for. No evidence of bodies left in the wake of the ceviche tasting. And it tasted good, so I consider it a success. The thing that surprised me most was how quickly the shrimp "cooked" in the lime juice. It only took 15 minutes before they were all a perfect shade of pink. On the lithic front, Matt took the Peten director of the department of monuments out to the lithic site I am hoping to excavate next month. It is an amazing site, with more than a meter of debitage on top of a platform. By all standards, this is an impressive deposit of lithic material. The director admitted that it certainly seemed like a lot of chipped stone debris, and that it was probably worth undertaking. And he confirmed something that we had heard - the owner of the site works for him. So all of the negotiating and explaining that we did to try and get permission to do salvage excavations on his land was unnecessary - he knew why we wanted to do it, since his job is archaeology related. He just did not want us to take his land from him, or report him to his boss for not taking care of the site. So the excavations are likely to happen, and happen soon. Not certain, but likely. Final story. Kathe and I were walking around Atigua, clearing our heads from too much time spent inside. We were talking to a couple of people along the walk, and I was reminded of a story told by David Dodge in How Lost was my Weekend (1949). After spending a year in Guatemala, Elva (his wife) had heard of a fertility cloth that was becoming hard to find. It depicted a very natural act between a bull and a cow, in beautiful embroidery. But all of the examples she came across were "cleaned up" for the more puritanical tourists. So she began to argue with the vendors (the following is a paraphrase from my memory of the story). "But this is what you asked for" "No, it is not. It lacks the thing which makes it a bull, and not a steer." "How about this one?" And so on, until a properly unmodified improper textile was brought out, bartered for, and traded hands. The entire anecdote was intended to demonstrate how completely a part of Guatemala the family had become. The final bit had the vendor bidding adieu to the gringo couple with "Adios, chapines". Dodge was thrilled; they had been accepted by a Guatemalan as a part of the local scenery. Nice story. Nobody yet has called me a chapin, nor are they likely to. But Kathe and I are becoming very comfortable with the rhythms and mannerisms here, and in a strange way, we feel at home. But the story continues. The walk we were taking wound its way around, and we poked around a jewelry store, when framed on the wall, I saw the textile referred to in the book. And suffice it to say, the bull could be proud of its depiction. So we are now keeping a half an eye out for a similar textile. It would look so good next to the bar in the house.... Hope you all are well. Many people I know are beginning to filter back into New Orleans, and are facing the difficult process of cleaning up destroyed houses. Keep them in your thoughts and prayers. Best, Crorey
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6 November 2005 |
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A full day of lab work completed, the foreigner walked out of the lab house, closing and locking the iron gate behind him. Shrugging his shoulders to work out the kinks, he started walking the two blocks of dirt road to the market. A good day, he thought, and I spent a little longer at the analysis than usual . Freed from the day's responsibilities, he began his mental checklist - only five days before his girlfriend arrived. He rounded the corner, having just completed his shopping list, when the red blur of one of the town's six hundred motorized tricycle rickshaws drove past. He lifted his hand. The tuk-tuk swerved off the road, coming to a stop next to him. He greeted the driver, and started to climb in, just as he had done a thousand times before, but pulled back when he saw another figure in the shadowy passenger's bench. The driver looked up at him. "Look, señor, I have a fare already on board, but if you are not in a hurry, I can drop him off quickly, and then take you home." "Sure." He climbed in the cramped rickshaw, shifting his bulk into the least uncomfortable of available positions. If only this guy would move over a little he thought. But the other passenger had gotten there first, and had the right to put his hand wherever he wanted, even if the arm behind the seat made things a little more uncomfortable. A few turns of the tuk-tuk later, he leaned forward and asked "Excuse me, sir. How far is this next stop?" The driver just looked ahead, not turning, not answering. Sensing something wrong, he turned to the other passenger, who was still crowding the space with his arm behind the seat. Visible only in profile, the first passenger stared forward, also not responding. Then he spoke. "Turn here." "Try this road." "Maybe this one." Three turns later, the tuk-tuk turned down a dark alley. The passenger yelled "Here!"; the taxi stopped abruptly and the gun, previously hidden behind the seat, flashed out. The passenger jumped out of the tuk, brought the gun up in a TV police stance, pointed the gun at the foreigner's chest, and thumbed back the trigger. The foreigner froze, anticipating a demand for money. Then the gunman leaned forward, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell. Click. The details from this point on are rather fuzzy. The sound of the gun could have been a miss, or it might have been a misfire. Either way, the foreigner realized that it was not a typical mugging – the kidnappers were not going to be content with a live victim who could identify them. The gunman looked down at the gun, and reached to re-try the firing mechanism, while the foreigner threw his 245 pounds of bulk through the open window of the tuk, and landed awkwardly on the ground. The driver stepped out. "¡NO ME MATAS! DON'T KILL ME! I will give you whatever you want!" "Give me your dinero!" The foreigner threw his bag, wallet, and phone at the driver and turned and fled, stopping at the nearest house to get inside, and away from his assailants. After a phone call to report the kidnapping, theft and attempted murder to the lab director, he called a cab and returned to the lab. Only when the iron gates closed behind him again did he allow release of the tension and fear that had all but overcome him. Matt is fine, if a little shaken. The fact that the other passenger tried to kill him before asking for the money speaks to the fact that they wanted no witnesses to "denounce" them to the police. So it is understandable that he would think that they might try again. Every passing tuk tuk is a threat, and he doesn't know where the real threat lies. In other exciting news, I received a phone call this week from one of our workers, Benedicto. "Hey, Crorey. I just wanted to tell you that we are moving, and won't be living in San José any more." I was surprised – I didn't know that there was a plan to get out of town, and he seemed so well-ensconced in the community. "Why?" "They killed my uncle. We are leaving tonight, and I wanted you to know. We don't know where we are going, but I'll call you once we get there and let you know." "Do Matt and the other guys know about this?" "No. But I thought you could tell him, and explain it to him, since you speak English, and he understands English better than Spanish." The main thrust of his call was to inform me that he was leaving and hint at the fact that they didn't have money, and so were leaving their things behind. When I hung up from talking to him, I called Matt (whose phone that had been stolen), and a few phone calls later found out about the attack on Matt. The gist of the Nito story was that about 8 months ago, his uncle got roaring drunk, and beat up a girl (the daughter of one of the guys who worked with us). The girl was pretty seriously injured, went to the hospital, and died. No charges were filed, although everyone knew what had happened. Two weeks ago, Benito's uncle was killed in his bed by unknown assailants. I am told that eight months is a rapid turnaround for a revenge killing. The family decided to leave, and they did so without leaving a forwarding address, except to call me and obliquely ask for money. But I was a 10 hour drive away and had no way of sending the money, since I didn't know where to send it. So I am not entirely sure why he called me (instead of, say, Matt or Christina, who live between San José and Jalapa, and could loan them money until they got settled). He later called to tell me he was in Jalapa (only a nine-hour drive away), and that the family had moved into an rented apartment (turkey clucking in the background) and that eventually they would get a house and send for the stuff, but that they didn't have money to do it. Consensus is that they are plotting a retaliatory strike, but removing themselves from the area for protection. All in all, an odd scenario. And one that seems better suited to a 19th century novel than something being relayed from a cell phone from the Petén. Needless to say, Kathe and I are not particularly anxious to go to the Petén and do the work that is pending there. The world is just a little bit scarier now. Before Katrina, the daughter of the federal judge that lives across the street from our house was raped in her front yard. Three blocks from our house, there were a series of a dozen murders over the course of three weeks. The sound of gunfire was pretty common. When Kathe would call, she sounded scared – she couldn't go anywhere at night, she couldn't walk alone, and she couldn't visit our grandkids five blocks away. I hear the same tone in Matt's voice when I talk to him, and with reason. And as much as I need to do the analysis that is waiting for me in the Petén, I cannot do it while she is here. It is one thing to put my own life in danger (something I am not keen to do), and another entirely to place the life of my wife in the same danger. So I am continuing the process of analysis here in Antigua, where I am likely to have a pocket picked, but much less likely to be killed. The rest can wait until I return.
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20 November 2005 |
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Bees took over the rooftop patio today. I was downstairs listening to the loud hum of the bees feeding on the flowers, when Kathe yelled. "Crorey! Come here!" Just a note of panic in her voice. I ran upstairs, and immediately saw the source of the concern. Honeybees were swarming everywhere. The cats, who had been sunning themselves five minutes earlier, decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and took up residence at a safe distance. The bees swarmed for about an hour, then settled down and started building a hive. In the bougainvilla. On the roof. Not the best scenario. I finally started a fire in a brazier that I placed directly below the new hive. The bees hung out for a while, then began to disperse. But they came back, and are now firmly ensconsed, and have taken up residence in Jeanne's house just as surely as I have. I think the same thing draws us both - the gorgeous flowers on the roof. Evicting either of us will likely be difficult...
The week has been a wonderful one for sunsets. Matt, who has been staying here since late last week (getting a new passport, etc), joined us out on the roof to watch a particularly spectacular one the culminated with a serious explosion from Fuego, the volcano to the SW of the city. Nothing could be felt where we were, but the smoke ring vaulted into the sky with pretty amazing force. Gentle reminder that a city that has been hit by massive earthquakes numerous times is not safe now no matter how pretty it is.
some reimbursement cash from the move we made in September that I helped pay for. The money he gave me was exactly the amount the necklace cost. Without letting Kathe in on the fact that I had this money, I snuck out of the house and made a rare foray into Antigua without her, heading straight to the jewelry store. The necklace was not there. There was a large exhibition in Guatemala, and that necklace, along with some others she had liked, was on display in the capital. The next day, I made another foray "to find her" when she went to get her hair cut across the street. That foray just happened to coincide with the location of the jewelry store, where I proceeded to pay for the necklace. They asked me to come back for it later (they were still unpacking things) and I agreed, but only on one condition. "My wife will be with me," I said, "and I don't want her to know about the necklace. So please tell her that it was sold to a chapin weeks ago. So I will pick it up while she is looking at one of the other pieces." The owner got a kick out of that. "We'll lie through our teeth! And we'll package it in an old, ugly box so that she won't know what it is, and won't be interested in opening it." And later that day, Kathe and I 'happened' to walk past the jewelry store. We went inside, and the cashier, recognizing me, went back to the desk, fiddled with something and walked over to show Kathe some other pieces. And, just like promised, she lied, and said that it had been sold long ago. Meanwhile, I am wandering around the store, and spot my box on top of the desk. It is an old cardboard jewelry box with a torn edge and some scribbles in pen on the cover. Making sure that Kathe is looking the other way, I slip the box into my pocket, and write a quick note requesting that the earrings be set aside – I'll be back later. At this point I am busted; Kathe asks me what I think of another necklace, and sees me finishing the note. I demur, and she starts looking at something else. I take up residence elsewhere in the shop, and am looking at another display. "Don't buy the earrings." from just behind my ear. "What?" "I know you are disappointed that the necklace is already sold, but don't just buy the earrings. They won't go with anything that I have... it's sweet of you, but don't buy the earrings." I did my best to look innocent. I got home, and after an appropriate amount of time, I started looking for a place to hide the Christmas present. Just before stashing them in my computer backpack, I opened the box to glance at them. Six keys. I had stolen the keys to the display cabinet from the jewelry store. Perfectly disguised in an old box with pen marks on it. Rats. So I had to sneak out of the house yet again. I fled the four blocks to the store, and when I got there, the owner was there, all smiles. She had the box for me. I explained the situation, returned the keys (she was more than a little surprised, but saw the humor in the situation), and got my own package (wrapped in an old light fixture box), and ran back to the house. And, as far as I know, did not get caught. So long as Kathe doesn't read this site.
And we will be heading back to the US in a little more than a week. We head to SC to pick up the car, then drive back to the land of the curbside refigerators. For that, and for so many other things, I am thankful this year. I hope that you all can spend the Thanksgiving week with people you love. Best, Crorey
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26 November, 2005 |
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Another month, another trip to the border. And another shakedown on the return trip. Returning from the border, where the paperwork has been completed at lightning speed. Driving down the road, glance around the corner, inhale smoke from the rusted-out pickup ahead, smooth turn of the wheel into the oncoming lane.... WOOP! Jerk back into my lane at the sound of the siren behind. Nowhere to turn off the road – no shoulder. And with only two narrow lanes, with no way to stop in traffic. The incomprehensible collocation of vowels emanates from the loudspeaker on top of the police cruiser pickup behind me: "IAOOOOPAEELAM, UUNAMEEEEADER!" No idea what language he is using, but the intent is clear: Pull over. I've been here before. Once I finally encounter a place to turn off the road, I hop out, freshly printed paperwork in my left hand, and extend my right to the smiling cop who has found himself a new sucker. We talk small talk. I ask if there is a place to take a picture of the volcanoes we have been seeing on the left side of the road – play up the bumbling tourist with some command of the language. He asked for the car paperwork. I give it to him. Driver's license? Handed over. More small talk. Other cop walks over to Kathe's side of the truck, starts asking her questions. I am asked to come back to the cruiser pickup. At this point, there was no question about what was going on. He did not want to write the ticket, because there would be no money in that for him. He wanted the money up front. And I did not want to give it to him. Sound familiar? See September 20 entry. Copy. Paste. It was the seatbelt, this time. And while he is showing me the paperwork that demonstrates the illegality of not wearing the seatbelt (I had been wearing it until five minutes before, when we started taking pictures of the volcano – no, really), three pickup trucks full of passengers drive by at 75 miles an hour. Forget seatbelts, pickup truck beds don't have seats. But he is concerned about my safety. My multa (fine) = 400 quetzales (roughly $50). "And where do I have to pay this fine?" "Guatemala City." "Ahhh, the capital. Exactly where in the capital?" "Zone 11." "Isn't that a dangerous area?" "Yeah, parts of it are pretty bad." "So let me get this straight. You are protecting me by sending me to the capital where it is dangerous." Suddenly the talk turned to how he wanted to offer me a hand (presumably with the hopes of taking it back full of cash) by not making me go to the capital. In the meantime, Kathe was having a different conversation. "So, you guys are from the US, huh? I really want to illegally migrate there and join my three brothers. And as far as this job goes, I really don't even like hurting the bad guys." Amateurs. Mexican police could teach them a thing or two about bribes. So I offered to buy my cop a coke. He followed us to the nearest convenience store, where I bought myself a coke, some cookies and a candy bar, and left the Q50 note on the counter for the police to help themselves to a coke or two. And to my change. And the most beautiful moment of all was as we were taking our leave at the convenience store, when Kathe shook the hand of the cop, offered a 'thank you' and then asked, "And what is your name again?" What followed was quite a soft shoe shuffle. Gerson had the good sense to appear bashful about the whole thing.... Yep, when I am able to get bored with a police shakedown, it is time to go home. For the past few weeks I have found it increasingly difficult to write the journal, partly because I have developed a routine with analysis that is not terribly exciting and partly because I don't interact with people quite as much now. Primarily, however, I find it hard to write about a place that has become home. Anthropologists often find that the first experiences in the field are the most intense. The descriptions of a new cultural experience are vivid because everything is new and different, and every detail imprints itself indelibly on the mind. At the risk of sounding terribly po-mo, the feeling of "otherness" is strongest when you are first introduced to the new scene. As you become more accustomed to your surroundings, everything takes its place within a cultural framework, and it is no longer astounding that the lines to the banks on Friday nights run for hundreds of meters as people wait to cash their checks. It no longer seems amazing that women sell hand-woven table runners for a dollar on the street corner, or that fireworks explode outside our window at 4:30 am (irritating, yes; amazing, no). The beauty of nature around me is still stunning. The beauty of the people no less so. Architecturally, the city continues to be impressive, and I find new things to like about it all the time. But very little creates quite a sense of awe and wonder. And when that sense of wonder is gone, it is definitely time for a change of scenery. As my mom said, most of the time, when you put in that much effort for nine months, you at least have a baby to take home at the end of it. My baby is still in the oven. And there will be many more months before that dissertation has completed its gestation cycle. So I am ready to go home. So I suppose that it is a good thing that my ticket is for Tuesday. Kathe and I will carry our suitcases to the cab, shake the dust out of our hair, and, remembering Lot's wife, will not look back. Completely untrue. We will always look back to this time. The people here are wonderful. From Gilberto and Anamaria, our lovely friends here in Jeanne's house, to Vilma and Francis who sell us coffee on the corner, to Helmut, the upper-class travel agent we have made friends with, to Maribel, the chipmunk-cheeked Salvadoran waitress at one of our local breakfast places, our lives are richer for having spent the time here. It has been no picnic – I have never before had insomnia, and the stresses of living here, when there are so many problems at home, combined with considerable financial and academic stress, have yielded a very unhealthy dose of regular sleeplessness. Add to that a serious dose of survivor's guilt from Katrina, well.... But no matter what stresses are involved, I am always happier with my wife by my side than without her. So the disaster of Katrina had a decidedly positive side; Kathe and I have spent two months together here in Antigua, rather than apart. And I will be coming back shortly after the new year (I have to, in order to avoid having problems with the car, and there IS a lot of analysis still pending), so I will return. And will return with a different perspective, and serious ganas to complete my job here. For all of the rugged physical beauty of the volcanoes and the delicious weather, it is truly the friends we have made here that has made it a special place in our hearts. In the meantime, there is a lot to do. We have been trying to pack and organize things so that 1) we will be allowed on the plane on Tuesday, and 2) the clutter is minimalized when Jeanne arrives at her house. That involves packing a lot of boxes of lithics, more boxes of equipment, bags of textiles, a hand-carved Virgin (lovingly crafted by Don Gilberto as a gift for Kathe), copies of project data and books. One thing I am truly sorry to miss is the Christmas season here. Beginning with the burning of the devil, which will happen early next month, to the New Year's celebration, the month of December is, by all accounts, pretty spectacular. Probably enough to inspire wonder in even the most jaded of graduate students. But we are off, come Tuesday, to SC, where we will visit briefly with family, before returning to New Orleans to see what wonders our fridge has in store for us (next week, on the upcoming TV series Recombinant DNA Goes Wild!) and how high grass can climb in absence of regular trimming. Add some Clorox with a side of ammonia, and we'll be ready for some serious cleaning. And, as always, have machete, will travel. I hope your Thanksgiving was a delghtful (and delicious) one, and that time was well spent with family and friends. Best, Crorey
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