MARCH JOURNAL ENTRIES

5 March 2006

This week has been about doctors, medicine, and hospitals.   My favorite subjects...

Kathe's carpal tunnel surgery was a success, it appears.  A guardian angel took Kathe over there, and waited until she was done.  It was a pretty simple operation, but she (Kathe, not the guardian angel...) was seriously groggy when I spoke to her afterwards.   I laughed out loud when she told of her experience with the pain killers...

She decided to set them out before going to bed.  Good idea.   That way if she did wake up with pain, all she would have to do is swallow and sip.

Problem comes when she tries to take the child-proof cap off with the left (non-dominant, and not-operated-upon) hand.   First she tried with just the hand.  No dice.  Next, she placed the bottle between her knees, and twisted the cap.   Still no pills.  Third try – she sits on ground, places the bottle between her feet, and used the non-dominant hand to remove cap. (Voice over: As you can see, primates use simple tool and combinations of prehensile digits to manipulate small objects.  And their natural curiosity compels them to attempt complex maneuvers...).  Who the heck gives a post-surgical hand operation patient a child-proof bottle of pain pills?!?

Health care is much more variable here in Guatemala.  And the doctors are much more likely to act like US doctors of a generation ago, in the sense that they tend to command, and not explain, with the assumption that the patient knows nothing and will just accept the order.   He is, after all, The Doctor.

Matt ran headlong into this when he came down with malarial last year.   The doc took one look, said "dengue", charged him ten bucks, and sent him back to the camp with a side trip to the pharmacy to buy pills that treat dengue (or bone-break fever, as it is known colloquially).

Unfortunately, the drugs he bought do not treat malaria, which is what he had.   But the doctor, in total arrogance, just saw the gringo, made a snap judgment (one that could have been improved upon by a simple blood test) and moved on to the next patient.

And Matt came a whole lot closer to death than he needed to.

Combine the arrogance of most doctors with a less rigorous training program, and the resulting situation is enough to keep the thinking man out of the waiting room.

But that is where Matt and I ended up this past week.  Luis has been the guard at the camp for the past few years, and he has been a very good friend of the project.  He was worried because his youngest son (also named Luis, he is the one in the foreground of the picture in blue shorts) had almost died from intestinal worms.

That would get me worried, too.  They had even given him up for dead when he went rigid and started shaking.   But the little guy was a lot tougher than they thought, pulled through, and they went to a doctor in the neighboring village, who then peremptorily sent them to get some drugs to treat the worms.  

They helped.  But not enough.   The little guy was still suffering from serious diarrhea, was not keeping food down, and had stopped sleeping because of a serious cough that he had developed.  Pretty miserable little four-year old.   We told Luis to bring him into town, and we would take him to
the doctor (thinking that the next day would be a great time for it).  He said, sure, maybe next Tuesday. 

He showed up (sure enough, the next Tuesday) at 10, with everybody scrubbed clean and dressed in their finery.   Another gringo mistake, not insisting on an early start time.  The doctor gives no appointments.  Everything is first-come, first served, and we did not get there first.   Or second.  As a matter of fact, we got there last.  So we waited, trying not to touch anything in a waiting room filled with really ill kids.   Three hours later, they lock the doors for lunch.  We are the last ones that will be seen.  An hour later, Luis, Mary Magdalene, and little Luis were ushered into the doctor's office.  

Now the scene is a little strange anyway.  Matt and I are basically acting like a combination bodyguard, patron, and guard (to make sure that Luis doesn't make a break for it, I guess).  And we are decidedly out of place in a waiting room full of women with their children.   We almost look like we are the enforcers, just there to make sure that the doctor´s diagnosis is good.  Whatever.  We make do, and read and sleep and watch the Latin version of The People's Court.   And we decline the invitation to go in with the family to witness the interactions with the doctor. 

Five minutes later, the examination of little Luis is complete, and the nurse insists that we join.   We shrug, and walk in.

He explains what is going on.  Actually explains, both to us and to Luis and Mary Magdalene.   Constriction of inflamed bronchial tubes is his diagnosis (for the cough), a condition he refers to as "weezeen".  But he also wants to send Luis to the lab for blood and stool samples.   We later put together that the kid has bronchitis (I could have told you that) and that the weezeen was the symptom, and not the condition.  Hmm.

We go to the lab.  They take the samples.   The kid cries.  We wait.  Finally, we take the results back to the doc, who has said that since we are coming back, he will let us zip in and out quickly, and we won't have to wait forever in the waiting room.

Which is precisely what did not happen.  We sat in the waiting room with even more people this time, and waited until the room was empty again (two more hours) before getting in.  

He was right to send us back to the lab.  The intestinal worms had not been eradicated, and the kid was going through the whole thing all over again.   For the bronchitis, he said it was pretty severe, and suggested that we get a respirator, and administer medicine through the respirator four times a day (that way the medicine gets where it is needed, rather than going through the stomach, and into the blood that way) .  The instructions were pretty complex, and it was going to cost money (unless, the doc explained, we knew someone we could borrow one from.   Yeah, right.  Can I borrow a cup of sugar, and a respirator, please?).  Luis was not comfortable with the instructions.   The alternative was a syrup, and he felt much more comfortable with that.  We took our leave, got the three drugs for the kid (a de-worming script, a bronchial syrup, and a steroid) .  As we were headed for the door, the doc asked if there was a dog in the house.

Sure, said Luis.  Does he interact with the kids?   He looked over at the kid and laughed.  Capitan is bigger than the kid – there is no keeping the two apart. 

That is probably where he is getting his worms.  You have to keep the dog away.   Then he started to go rapid fire through a list of things that could be harmful to the kid and his bronchial infection, that could lead to asthma later on (the doctors in the audience feel free to skip ahead) .  Smoke in the house?  Yep.  Wood fire in the kitchen?  Yep.   Dust in the house?  Yep (dirt floor).  Animals in addition to the dog?  Including the monkey?  

Basically told the family that their life was an surefire way to kill the kid.   So please stop living the way you do.  Get an education, get a job, get a condo.  Stop interacting with animals, and install a gas line to replace your kitchen stove.   Don't hug your kid until after you have bathed, lest he get some smoke off your clothes.  Clean that dirty floor.   Be civilized, for crying out loud.

He didn't really say any of that, but that was what he was asking them to do.   They are in no more of a position to change their lifestyle than to become astronauts.  A nicer family  you will never find, but they simply do not have the means to change their way of life.

And they do not even have the means to take the kid to the doctor's office.   The visit, the labwork and the drugs cost about $60.  Matt and I split the cost out of pocket – no big deal.  Except to them.   I am pretty sure that Luis makes only a little more than that per month as guard for the property.  There is simply no way to save anything when you have to buy food and provide for your family, and wage labor is unavailable.   Even wage labor, though, only pays around $40 a week – and that assumes you can get it.  So somehow he has to come up with two weeks worth of work extra that he can use to take his kid to the doctor.  

So sad that something so preventable as worms kills so many kids every year.  And sadder still that medical care is still prohibitively expensive to the people who need it most.

Analysis continues, and we are not any closer to getting to the field for the last two days of field work.   In fact, that was a cruel joke this week.  Instead of sending the police to Don Diablo, we went to the police to ask them to do more paperwork.  And in a couple of weeks, they will send out a cop to talk to him, and we will be able to go out and work.

Except that it will never happen.  Everyone talked a great game, with mention made of precedents and land repossessing and cancellations of contracts.  But it will be business as usual.

I even have an ace in the hole now.  Mario wants to follow up, and is willing to go and dig – all I have to do is show him on the map where I want him, and he will go and bring back more stuff.  Assuming that I can get money to do it and permission.  He is looking at this as a long-term thing.  And it looks pretty cool.   As long as we can really get some bureaucracy moving in our favor.  Yeah right.  That is the sound of me holding my cynical breath.

I head home on Wednesday.  I can`t wait.   The recent food porn has been pretty hard-core.  Biscuits and gravy.  Crawfish.  Shrimp.   Steak at Degas.  Etouffee.   Buttery biscuits with ribbon cane syrup.   Chunky peanut butter.  Coffee with chickory.  Beignets.  Barbecue.  

I have a feeling I will be charged for the extra weight when I return, a mere two weeks later. 

09 March 2006

The Epic of the Star-Struck Lithicist
(sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies)

Now folks, here's a story 'bout a guy named Cro An archaeologist, always going with the flow Then one day, he was searchin' for a site When he found a lot of chert, lots of flakes of red and white Flint, that is.
Petén quartz-y.
Chalcedony.

Now next thing you know, that Cro is on a tear.
"We've got to excavate, right here, and there, and there."
He pulls out some string, and he ties it to the stakes, When straight up the hill comes the owner of the flakes.
Jerk, that is.
Asinine,
All the time.

Don Angel says, there's treasure on my land I'll put up a fuss, cancel everything he's planned, I'll keep saying 'no' till he leaves the site alone And then I'll come right back and sack it on my own.
Dig, that is,
Looter's bold
Find the gold.

He digs down a foot, and he finds that nothing's there.
So he digs another foot, and the gringo says "Beware!
It's totally illegal this thing you're tryin' to do."
But Don Angel smells the cash, and digs another two... Feet, that is.
Going down
Underground.

The path to dig the chert goes through the bureaucrats Who shrug and scratch their heads, underneath the wide-brimmed hats They type another letter and they pass the buck along And act all surprised when that doesn't right the wrong It didn't work?
Shocked, that's me
How can it be?

"The next step," says Cro, is to find in our bureau A person who'll step up and help this nice gringo.
For six months straight, he fought bureaucracy And had given up the fight, decided it was crazy.
Loco even
Wackiness
A loser's mess

The Judge called up Cro, and said, "We'll go today.
So drive on down, and we'll be on our way.
We're bringing in the guns, and we'll be at your side, Really!  Don't be scared!  Don't turn your back and hide!"
Coward, she says
Seems afraid
To be flayed.

(Banjo interlude)

Cro said "I fear no man.  It's not for fear I stay.
The guy just hates my guts, this gringo stays away.
The director of the project – Adriana is her name She can face the dude – it's a Guate-only game.
Not foreigner
A national
Who's rational

She listened to him talk, and she decided then and there.
"The site, it must be saved.  I can let you dig – that's fair.
I'll give to you a note that's good for fifteen days, You can dig 'til then, through the silts, the sands, the clays.
Dig away
In a flurry
Lotsa hurry

"I'm going home tomorrow, for two whole weeks!" he cried.
"You'd better dig today.," the judge at once replied.
"How can I do that?" Cro whined.  "The day is almost through.
Diggin takes up lots of time, and I gotta dig two."
Units, that is.
Two by twos.
Real bad news.

"And even more than that," he said, "I have to hire the men; Workers who can dig, really stick the shovel in.
By now they will have gone, and what am I to do?
I'd have to dig myself, instead of hiring two."
Local boys
Maybe three
To help me.

"Well, I suppose, this deal will have to wait.
I'll send some police down, we'll set the matter straight."
She turned and sent ten men, and to each she gave a gun; She armed them just to make real sure Don Angel wouldn't run Caught him now Guy with rage, Sign the page

They went on down to talk, and the owner said his piece.
"I only want what's right.  Make it worth the lease!
Three thousand sounds real good!  C'mon!  What do ya say?"
So they called up old Cro, and said "You wanna pay?"
Mordida
Bribery
Be nice to me.

Old Cro's in a fix – by the law he cannot pay.
The stuff that's underground is not his anyway.
He can't pay a bribe, 'cause that's against the law And the land is worth much less; that deal is way too raw.
Profit, that is.
Make a buck
Dig some muck.

At last they all agree, and sign the document And even Don Angel really seems content For the only little thing that he got to stipulate "The people who will dig won't include someone I hate."
Politicos
No enemies
Pretty please.

So Cro has to go and fire some friends so dear.
He hates to do it but, if he really must dig here, Then that is the line that he really has to toe, So long, then dear Jorge, Paco and Tirso.
Excavators,
Friends of mine
Quarantine

So that ends my tale of bureaucrats galore Now I get to dig, that's the ending of the gore.
And even though I know that I'll have to add a verse, I have to admit, it could have been far worse

But only
if the permits
were being handled
by Darth Vader!

31 March 2006

The week has been stellar.  I had been a little worried about the experimental part of my project – where I actually replicate activities that the ancient Maya likely engaged in.  But with a trio of old-time chicleros working me through the process, the biggest concern for me was getting them the tools they needed knapped on time – they knew instinctively how to manage all of the tasks with the tools I provided.

It started off slowly, with a day spent in preparation and working on fitting axes into hafts for later use.  Then we got started, and we split and smoothed wood, drilled ceramic sherds (one class of artifacts we find in quantity is round, drilled sherds used in spinning cotton), drilled jade and wood, cut the top off of a conch to make a shell trumpet, and cut some more off for beads.  And all of the work was done with chert and obsidian tools.  The coolest part of all of it is watching the guys get into the process – they really seemed to get a kick out of doing the experiments.  I even let them play around a little with the knapping, so that they could get an idea of what it takes to make a chert tool. 

The experiments themselves are going well, but are not proceeding without the usual set of frustrations.  I am in the middle of three or four guys who are cutting, drilling, chopping and digging from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon.  The idea behind the experiments is that if I do all these activities with chert tools and then study the damage on the tools, I will be able to recognize the damage on tools we recovered from excavation.  So, for example, if I have a house at Trinidad where a lot of shell was being engraved, the damage on the chert from that house will likely be the same as damage on flakes from my experiments where I engrave shells.  Another location, where the local butcher lived, will have chert that was damaged in a manner very similar to the chert we used in butchering a goat (I would have used deer, but it is a protected species and prohibitively expensive, to boot). 

And so we are doing all of the experiments that we can come up with for activities that might have used chert.  We are scraping hides, cutting leather, chopping trees, butchering a goat, drilling jade (well, not successfully drilling jade, but that is another story), making shell beads and a shell trumpet, drilling ceramics and wood, making a wooden drum, and making moccasins.  Well, as far as the moccasins are concerned, we are doing the things that we would do if we were making moccasins – cutting leather, punching holes in the leather, etc.

The drilling of jade was something I really wanted to try.  It is truly amazing that a substance so hard was used for so long by people who had no access to modern cutting implements.  And although I cannot tell you what they did use, I can, with some confidence, tell you that they were not drilling jade beads using chert drills.  After two days of drilling, I had an indentation in the thin piece of jade I had brought with me from Antigua.  Not a hole, mind you.  An indentation.  If you put a drop of water in the indentation, ninety percent of the drop would flow over the side.  And that represents the work of one person for two days, about 10,000 rotations of the drill, and a number of drills destroyed, bagged and replaced over the two days.  We tried putting sand in the hole, but that simply obscured the hole, and did not help at all.  We tried different methods of drilling, but none of them came out well. 

So we scrapped the project, until I convinced Don Arturo to spend a couple of hours making a bow drill.  And it does work, or at least it works better.  A have a guy now making 10,000 rotations per hour and we are getting down a little further.  It also means the drills are getting eaten up pretty quickly, too.  Which means more knapping for me.  And the jade is still going slowly, but at least there is now the possibility of drilling through it.  Maybe.  Minimally, I have a large number of samples at various stages of wear, and some really cool video of the different methods of drilling we used.

These are a few of the activities we undertook for the experiments

Making a drum to butchering a goat,

Drilling beads out of jade, shell, and sherds,

Cutting the tip from a conch to make a trumpet.

Other experiments have had better results.  Arturo got a hollow avocado log, and we started cutting on it to make a drum.  The teponaztle was a drum used in prehispanic times that made two tones when struck.  There was an H carved lengthwise into the hollowed-out log, leaving two tongues of different lengths that, when struck, gave off two different tones.  We started with the hollow log, and simply cut grooves into it in the form of an H.  Four days later, we are still cutting – the log is pretty thick – and we are almost done.  I eventually want to do the same with an un-hollowed log, but we have to wait for the cow to be butchered to do that, so that we can use the sinew to haft the axe.   

The problems with the axes is pretty typical, from what I have read about hafting.  It is simply a difficult process.  The first day, we took some of the axes I had been making and hafted them.  Great.  But it was obvious from the start that we had a lot to learn about hafting stone tools.  Arturo was proud of the result, but I had a sneaking suspicion that after ten strokes, the stone would fall out of the hafts.


It only took nine.  We decided that the best bet would be to get some sinew and rawhide, rather than tanned leather and tie the axes and hoes into the handles.  The cow was to be butchered on Tuesday night, so we could get it first thing Wednesday morning, and then start our experiments.  But I had misunderstood, according to Arturo.  It was Wednesday night that they were butchering.  So we went over there on Wednesday.

Wrong.  I had been right, and the cow was butchered on Tuesday evening, and sold on Wednesday.  It was really fun to realize that my Spanish had progressed to a point where I could understand directions better than Arturo (at least on a bad day for him).  Which was small consolation, since there was nothing left of the cow by Wednesday evening.  So the axe experiments of chopping wood and digging are still pending.  But we should be able to start them on Monday.  I will get Arturo, come hell or high water, to make sure that the haft holds.

And on Friday we butchered a goat.  Killing it was pretty distasteful, but the actual work was fascinating.  In the space of an hour and a half, the guys (none of whom had ever butchered a goat before) had taken the skin off, cut out the entrails, cut though the ribcage (with one of the poorly hafted axe and what quickly became a heavily battered flake), and divided up the portions into haunch and round and ribs, all ready for barbecuing.  And I had one of the haunches defleshed so that we can carve artwork into the bone next week.

In all of that, the only metal we used was the nails used to stretch the hide (and we used stone hammers to drive in the nails).   Again, the coolest result was the impressions of the guys doing the butchery.  They were surprised at how fast it went and by how long the obsidian flake they used stayed sharp.  They were less impressed with the chert, but said that is was useful as well, for cutting nearer the bone.  And they enjoyed doing it, and have begun to give talks to the people who come by to see what the crazy gringo is doing.  They explain what we are doing pretty well, and seem to enjoy the process.  And they all took home a portion of the goat to eat and share with their families, so everyone wins.  Just a typical day in Nueva San José.

And life in NSJ is certainly interesting.  The people here are all recent arrivals – the oldest family here arrived in the late 1970s.  And that creates an interesting dynamic within the group.  Most places in Guatemala have very closed groups and strong xenophobia.  Here it is different.  Although an outsider is unlikely to ever hold a political position (New San José is linked politically to San José, whose residents are from much older Itzá stock, including three of my workers), the community is open in a way that is very reassuring to the foreigner.  People are just welcomed here.

I started off the week not sure what I would be doing, where I would be staying, or how I would cope with the project.  I called up Luis, a friend of mine in NSJ (his son was the one that almost died from worms), and he offered his house for the week or two that I was going to be here.  I shared the house with Martin, another NSJ-er, and a recent transplant.  The funny thing is, I have been in the community longer than he has, but the community is so welcoming that it doesn't matter.  He has work, he has friends, and he has a place to sleep. 

And he is invited over to eat almost as often as I am.  I ate more in the week in NSJ than I ate in New Orleans while I was home.  But understand, please, that all of the love that I am feeling does not mean that everything is supremely comfortable.  The conditions are not bad, just rustic, and not at all set up for gringos (the three knots on my head where I smacked three separate too-low doorways says it all).

And who would have thought that I would miss my morning electrocution shower?  Luis apologized profusely for not having indoor plumbing.  He said that was on his list of things to get done on the house, but he just hasn't gotten to it yet.  I said – no problem, I have no trouble taking an outdoor shower.

Paco Planting Corn

I was wrong.  I do have a problem, just not the one that I thought I would have.  The "shower" is a sink right next to the street.  It is the place where dishes, clothes and people are washed.  And I do mean right on the street.  There is a blue plastic screen set up so that you can bathe in semi-privacy.

But only if you are a Petenero.  If you are a six-foot tall gringo, half of your body is out in the open, because the plastic polyurethane sheeting only comes up to chin height on a Petenero.  I feel terribly exposed being the only gringo in town anyway.  I feel doubly so being the only naked gringo bathing on the street.  So far I have managed to choose low-traffic times of day to bathe, and I do it quickly.  But Lord help the first tall woman to try and bathe here....

But it is a wonderful place, if only for the beautiful souls that live there.  And while in San José this week, I got a lesson in Small World.  Ema Pech, my Yucatec Maya teacher from Tulane is from Mérida, Yuacatan, where I was working for the majority of my time at Tulane.  While I was at a party in New Orleans, we struck up a conversation about the Petén, and she mentioned that she really loved it.  She had stayed in Petén with a woman, and she described how lovely the lake was, and how nice Flores was.

I had not realized we shared quite so many experiences in common.  A couple more minutes of conversation went by, and we realized that my village was the place she had stayed.  After a few moments of staring at each other, open mouthed, she shook herself free of the disbelief first.
"Would you mind taking some things back to her?"
I was delighted to do it, and only needed the name of the person to whom I was delivering it to.  The name was Chayax. 

In San José, there are only four last names.  There is Tesucun (that most hated of names, belonging to both the aforementioned DJ from Trinidad and the equally aforementioned Don Diablo from La Estrella), and there is Suntecum; there is Cauiches, and then there is Chayax.   All of the families are related, but asking for a woman with a last name Chayax only narrows it down a little.  Might as well open a Manhattan phone directory, and count the Smiths. 

I finally got a first name from Ema, and immediately got my response – of course we know Nimfa Chayax.  And, predictably, all my workers are related to her in one way or another.

The visit to her house was very nice.  She started out a little suspicious of a gringo that showed up on her doorstep as it was getting dark, but once she figured out who I was, we laughed and joked about what a small world it was and how someone like Ema just makes friends everywhere.
The only down side for the week was an episode of Grand Theft Auto.  I left the car locked and clubbed just below the apartment window, and over the course of Friday night, someone broke into it, hotwired it and drove it off.  Now normally, I would be furious, but I feel pretty sanguine about it for a couple of reasons.  I had asked around, and selling it was going to be difficult – the Guatemalan importation taxes were higher than the value of the car – and the car is not in any shape to drive home.  And although I had planned on one more week of experiments, I can do those without a car, and I had removed the flakes from last week's experiments the night before (thank goodness...). 

I filed a police report, but they are not terribly interested in recovering the car, and it certainly is not worth my while to offer a reward to them for looking for it.  So the car is gone.  But with it went the hassle of dealing with the car in the next two weeks.  So, even in an unfortunate circumstance, it ended up OK.  And much better than if I had lost the car before or during the field season.  That would have been disastrous.

So I hope you all are well.  I'll keep you apprised of developments with the experiments as I complete more of them.
Crorey

APRIL JOURNAL ENTRIES

8 April 2006

"Keep your head up."  Remi, my grandson, was learning to ride his bicycle, and it wasn't going well.   It wasn't so much the mechanics of it that were giving him trouble.   Instead, it was the fact that he was watching his feet, making sure they were doing the thing they were supposed to do.   It was still a new experience, and he just wanted to make sure.

Because he was looking down at the place where he was, he was weaving all over the place and falling down.  A lot.  As a result, h e was angry and frustrated and hurt. 

My mom, in her wisdom, did not try to address the symptom of weaving on the bicycle, but went right to diagnose the problem.   "Remi, keep your head up.   Look at where you are going."

Sure enough, when he tore his eyes off of his feet, he saw his ride in a different perspective.   By keeping his eyes on the place he wanted to go, he achieved a sense of balance that he couldn't get when he was focusing on the mechanics of pedaling.    And, instead of seeing the act of riding a bike with embarrassment, pain and frustration, it was suddenly a source of joy.

I wish I were more like my mom.  Instead, I am much more like Remi.   For so long now I have been pedaling through this dissertation research, focusing only on what my feet are doing.   I was unwilling to look up, afraid that my current step would be wrong.

And, honestly, some of what I do is a lot more like rock climbing than riding a bicycle.   Having your eye only on the prize is going to get you killed – you have to look where you are putting your feet.    But I have also spent way too much time looking at my feet, and it has made me weave from one part of my dissertation to the other.   And I was not enjoying it much.  The intense fieldwork you do as part of the dissertation is supposed to memorable and something you look back on with fondness, and it has mostly been a source of stress and pain.

But after a week of doing the experimental archaeology, I am jazzed about the research and looking around at the work I have done, seeing it in a larger perspective.   And now that I have looked up, I have more balance, and I don't wobble so much.  And I can actually enjoy the process a little.

It is not without its stresses.  I have been taking video of what we are doing, and invariably, the axe head that Arturo is using falls out of the haft in the video.   The hafting of the axes has been a sore point all along.  And I had hoped that my forest-wise assistants would help me find the way to haft them successfully.   Instead, they offer suggestions as to how to modify the shape of the tool to make it more easily hafted.  Like notches.

Great idea, except that the form I am copying does not have a notch. 

So we tighten up the rawhide and the leather and give the wood another 50 whacks before the axe head falls off.   Again.  And we retrieve it, and rebind it, and go back to work. Again.  And we laugh about it a little.   It is all about perspective.  And keeping your head up.

One perspective was pretty funny this week.  One of the experiments I am doing is digging with what looks like a really small hoe; you can dig with it like you would a one-handed pick or hoe.   Paco is digging beside the house, when he says "Another axe!

As soon as I finish the hide hair scraping experiment, I walk over, thinking that he needs another axe because his has broken.   But no, he has found another axe in the place he was digging. Not a total shock, considering that we are very close to the edge of the site of La Estrella, but amusing, nonetheless.   Use an axe to find an axe....

The other funny thing that happened with the axes was that, because they kept falling out of the haft when bound with leather, we bound them with pieces of the rawhide from the goat.   The thing about rawhide is that it is pliable when wet, but shrinks when it dries.  So anything tied with wet rawhide becomes much tighter as it dries.   Perfect.  We left two of them in the sun to dry.

And drove down the road to find fish for the next experiment.  When we came back, there was a chert axe lying on the ground next to the haft.   No rawhide.  The second axe was nowhere to be found.  A dog had apparently found a rawhide chew toy, eaten it, and started on the second one when somebody came by, and the dog decided to eat his prize somewhere else.

We never found it.  I never would have considered dogs to be part of the lithic tool formation process, but somewhere in the village is an axe that I worked hard to make, a haft that Arturo worked harder on, and a strip of rawhide in the belly of a very self-satisfied dog.   That dog definitely keeps his head up....

Dog troubles continued until the last day.  I had set up one of the experiments to carve art into the surface of long bones.   And, since I happened to have a ready supply of goat leg bones, I figured, what the heck.  I gave each of my main three informants one leg bone each, with the instruction to carve something into it.   One took the site guide for Motul and carved a pretty elaborate, if somewhat crude rendering of a figure from a polychrome vessel represented on the cover.   Another carved pseudoglyphs from the same brochure.   Ticho was not interested in doing art, so I suggested he make a bone rasp, where you cut a series of v-shaped grooves into the bone, and rub another stick along the length of the diaphysis.

As was the case with so many of the other experiments, the guys really got into the process.   Especially Ticho, charged with carving the bone rasp.   At the end of the day on Tuesday, he lacked an hour's work to finish his musical instrument.

And so we put them away, inside the house.  Away from anything that looked like it might be dog-accessible. 

Wednesday morning they were gone.

At some point during the night a (very brave) neighborhood dog walked into the house, right past my hammock, and carried off all three bones, located in three different spots around the house.

And all day Wednesday, random dogs, having communicated by d-mail, came by and stood at the entrance to the house, sniffed, and cast a glance my way.   You could totally see them weighing the opportunity cost.  Getting hit with a rock versus eating a bone.  Maybe getting hit with a rock, versus the possibility of eating a bone.   Not getting hit with the rock, no possibility of getting a bone.  And, one at a time, they would check the ready accessibility of pretty sharp rocks to the gringo on the porch and decide to look for easier meat elsewhere.

Fortunately, I only lost the art, and not the flakes associated with the art.   Fortunately, since that is what I was after.   And I have a couple of photos (although not of the rasp), so all is not lost.  But dang it, that was one of the coolest parts of the project.   And what is the point of consigning art if you don't get to keep it?

We did finish the drum, and it worked like a charm.  Really nice to hear the marimba player in the group tap out a tattoo on a three-toned instrument.   It was a nice way to end the experiments.  Although it is far too large for me to ship back, so I am giving it to Arturo, along with the other unfinished one.

So I spent a lot of money and a week and a half of my life chipping, cutting, scraping, butchering, carving, drilling, digging and planting.  And it was quite possibly the best money I have spent yet for the research.  Certainly the most enjoyable.
 

In other news, I failed to sell my car this week.  Yes, that is right.   The guys at the used car dealership didn't even ask what the price was – it was a simple case of not being interested.   Carlos and I tried a couple of places that take stolen cars across the border from the US, drive them down here, and then sell them after sanitizing them and faking some paperwork.   And they simply did not want the car.

I suspect that the truth is that they cannot find that model of Chevy Blazer in a junkyard, and would have a hard time finding an appropriate VIN to solder off of the old vehicle to place on the new one.   Easier to do with a local model like a Toyota.  And the fact that the sale is legit means that they would have to pay the taxes like any other car importer, something they want to avoid at all costs.

So I will take it to the border shortly after I arrive in Antigua, and will take a friend with me, to whom I will be donating the car when I leave.   Minimally, he can sell it to a junkyard for parts, and make a small profit off of it.  And maybe, just maybe, he will find a loophole that will let him own the car.   And since it was a gift to me from my loving sister-in-law (thanks again, Patty!), I feel pretty good about spreading the love around.   It has been a good car; I hope it will continue to be so for a new owner.

In the meantime, I have some things to straighten out.  I have the inventory of tools and flakes that I want to export to the US so that I can do my use-wear experiments.   I have the letter written, asking permission to export them.   And I have a letter, asking permission to move the items to the capital.

What I don't have is permission to remove the artifacts from the lab.

So I went to talk to Miguelito, who had gone with me to do the work at La Estrella.   He said, "Sure!  We'll take care of that for you.   But one question:  When are you going to finish the work at La Estrella?"

I babbled.  I am done with the site, and don't want to undertake more excavations there, especially not in the final week.   I hemmed.  I hawed.  I obfuscated.  I prattled.

He continued, "The reason I ask is that the owner is looking to sell the land, and wants us to complete the excavations before he sells it."

BS.  The bastard wants us to loot his site and turn over the stuff to him before he turns the keys over to the next owner.

After a brief discussion with Antonia, I called Miguel back.   "Look," I said.  I don't have any real problems with him stating who gets to work.   That is fine.  I don't like that the police are not allowed to back me up, but that is fine, too.  It really chaps some very tender parts of my anatomy to see in print that he is not responsible for the looting on the site, but I can even swallow that.   But,"  I finished, "to turn over artifacts to the owner of the site is not only dumb and irresponsible, it is also illegal, and I cannot do that.   Until that paper is changed, I can't do the work."

Whew.  Two present progressives, three subjunctives, five additional multiple verb constructions, and I am pretty sure that there was a split ergative and a genitive or dative in there somewhere.   I was proud of the oration, especially that part where I start with "Mira."

I am stealing from a friend when I talk about this.  Conard Hamilton explained to me that all negotiations in Salvador go through three phases.   There is the "fíjese" phase, roughly equivalent to the phrase "see here".   It commands attention, and the subsequent discourse expounds on the nature of the problem we are facing.   It is countered with the next phase of negotiations, the "si, pero" (or "yes, but") phase.  During this phase, additional options are explored in response to the original problems.   The final stage is the end game.   The "Mira" phase ends negotiations.  So you could imagine a bureaucratic interaction:

"Here are my signed forms in triplicate, with the seal and signature of the governor on each one." 

Bureaucrat shuffles through the papers, squints at each in turn, and then looks up, preparing for the fíjese.   "See here," he says.   "We have a problem because the law requires that each page also be initialed by the governor, so that we can be sure he has read each page."

But you are ready with the si, pero.  "Yes, but," you counter, "I have a signed statement from you, dated last week, that states specifically that the governor only need sign.   There is no mention of initialing."

"See, here," the bureaucrat says, with the temerity that goes with his position, "the new rules have been in place for months now.   The governor has to initial each page."

"Yes, but there is no way to do that.  The governor is on a junket to Paris for the next three months, and I need this now.   Besides, if that is the rule, why is there no paperwork posted to that effect?"

His hand falls on the only surviving copy of a document prominently displayed underneath a teetering stack of papers on the edge of his desk.   He pulls it out.  Sure enough, the paper states very clearly that, effective immediately, the governor must not only sign the document, but also initial each page of the document, as well.   "Mira," he says.  Look.  "There is nothing I can do.  Next in line, please."

The only trump over a Mira, according to Conard, is to play the "my brother-in-law is the ambassador" card.   I maintain that the brother-in-law to the ambassador does not have to meet with mid-level bureaucrats, cut his point is well taken.   Unfortunately, my brother-in-law, although a swell guy, holds no particular sway here.

When talking to Miguel, however, I found out that the gringo impression of this game is amazingly shallow.   I thought that by jumping to the endgame card, Miguel's turn was over.   How little I know about the game.  "Amateur," he must have thought.

"The letter has already been changed."

Huhn?

"The letter that says that I have to turn over to the landowner any artifacts other than chert or ceramics that I find – you had that changed?"

"Yep."

I wonder when they were going to tell me.

I went over to the office, at the end of a very stressful Friday, to get a copy of the letter.   Miguelito gave me the letter (a two-sentence internal memo outlining that the original document was incorrect, and that it should have read thus:...) and introduced me to the guy in charge of archaeology in all of Guatemala, Lic. Salvador.   So we started talking about when I can start.

Now, friends, my timetable had just shifted a little.  I was originally planning on waiting to help Matt move the artifacts to Nueva San José after the middle of the month.   It is a miserable task, doubly so if you are organizing it all by yourself.   But it turns out that he is going to get the guys from NSJ to do it for him after he is gone.  So I do not have to stick around, and I can head to Antigua as soon as I get the permit to move the artifacts.    I was thinking about next Thursday, which would put me in Antigua for the last couple of days of Holy Week, something not to be missed.

And somehow, that went badly agley.  I am now doing rescate work (and paying for it) at La Estrella on Wednesday.  All so that the landowner can get his loot before the sale.

"Does Don Diablo know about this paper?" I ask Miguelito, all innocence and light.

Of course not (this is the equivalent of the bureaucrat pulling the document out of the pile to show the new law) .  DD still thinks he has hoodwinked us, and that he will be the, ahem, caretaker of all important finds we come across.   There will be a huge fight (and me without police backing) when I remove the jade head from his property and give it to the Guatemalan government.  Thanks, Salvador, for all your help.   Can you sign my export permit?

Mira.

16 April 2006

Is the gringo learning how to negotiate the bureaucracy?

Not likely. But I may be making headway. The inventory was submitted, along with the letter requesting permission to move the artifacts. And, of course, a letter to request a letter stating that the letter had been submitted.

Which is what I had done all along – this is standard operating procedure. What made this time different was that I learned the value of incentive. In private enterprise, incentive works well. In a bureaucracy, it is simply difficult to provide an "incentive" without making it seem like a bribe. I know, I know; I am in Guatemala. Bribes are viewed differently here. But the trick, as I understand it now, is to make the person on your end of the bureaucracy want to make things happen. And I figured out how.

I have to have an IDAEH official accompany me on the trip. These trips are very serious business, where the person accompanying the artifacts is charged with making sure that there are no problems with getting artifacts from one place to another. If the police stop the driver, there has to be a good reason for a gringo to be carrying around a quarter ton of artifacts. The IDAEH rep, along with the official paper, acts as a get-out-of-jail-free card. The truth is, the IDAEH rep gets a per diem paid by the archaeologist, paid hotel and food, and a free trip to the capital for a couple of days.

But nobody wants to travel on Maundy Thursday. That is vacation time. And nobody wants to work on their day off. But Thursday was my day for leaving. That would put me in Antigua for Good Friday, and I would get to see all the solemn beauty and pageantry of the processions. And I could get a good jump on the last bit of analysis I have to do in Guatemala before heading to Puerto Rico, as well as a nice, quiet place to write my paper. I sell Miguelito on the idea. He does not get to go to the capital very often on these trips – usually that privilege goes to someone more senior. And he was reluctant to leave on his day off until I mentioned the processions. Suddenly, he might be able to talk the Licenciado into allowing us to go on Thursday.

The first try was unsuccessful. Lic. Salvador says plainly: the offices are not open on Thursday, so we can't accept delivery of artifacts being transported on Thursday. Miguelito shrugged as he hung up. I mentioned that we were going to the lithics lab in Antigua, and that the artifacts would be held there until Monday, when I would drive them in. Miguel brightened, and tried again.

Sweet success.  Salvador agreed to our proposal. 

Twenty minutes later, the paperwork had started down the line, and Salvador's secretary called Antonia. "The offices are not open on Thursday, and we can't accept delivery of artifacts being transported on Thursday."

Antonia came down to tell me the bad news. I called Miguel, and told him to work it out with the secretary. He now has incentive. And I honestly believe it will get done. I pay his per diem, but since I am driving, I don't have to pay a round trip bus fare.

And, of course, the final answer was: mira.

The Licenciado either changed his mind without telling me or just didn't sign the paperwork before leaving for the week (also neglecting to explain anything to the secretary). And we were back to being told the original story: the offices are not open on Thursday, so you have to wait. Until the following Tuesday, because Monday is the first day we can send the paperwork through.

In the meantime, we excavated at La Estrella (see photos). The excavations were a dream. And every time I have that dream, I wake up in a cold sweat, and spend the next hour rocking back and forth and moaning. The owner and his son and daughter spent their day making life unpleasant. The paper we signed said only 50 cm. You have gone further than that. You are working too long. What, are you keeping gringo hours? Here, we keep Guatemalan hours, because we are Guatemalans. You are a gringo. (Really?  Oh, no!  When did that happen?   Look at my arms – oh, man, my mom is going to kill me.  She always said that this kind of work would make me turn pale...)

Add their unpleasantness to the only rain we have seen in the last two months, and 100 degree heat, and it makes for a pretty unpleasant day.

At least I started the day off with a nice barb. "You know, Miguelito," I said nonchalantly, but loud enough for everyone to hear, "the real reason I am interested in this at all is because a scientist friend of mine at the university developed a process for turning chert into gold."

All eyes swiveled over to me. It took even Miguelito a three-count to catch on. "You sounded so serious, it took me a moment to figure out that you were joking," he later admitted.

And there was lots of chert. If I were an alchemist, and could turn chert to gold, funding would never again be a problem (although worldwide depressed gold prices would be). We dug down less than a meter in a 1x2 meter unit – about the size of a grave – and came away with 33 gunny sacks full of chert.

That's right. 33 sacks of lithic debris. Each weighing between 60 and 120 pounds each. It took three trips in my car to carry all the material to the storage shed where we are keeping the stuff until it is ready to be analyzed.

Logistical problems abounded throughout the day. The sharpie pens did not work in the rain, so we had to figure out how to keep track of all the material with minimal writing on the bags. We ran out of smaller bags for the other artifacts, so we made do with plastic ones, which meant that we had to transfer everything the next day to keep from rotting out the artifacts inside.

And it took a thirteen-hour day to finish it all up, take soil samples, and backfill.

But now it is done. I have the map pending and a little bit of work writing up the results, but I am basically done with the salvage work at the site. There are, of course, many more questions now that there is a little bit of information. Who controlled the site? Where did tools manufactured there end up? Was it a short occupation, as the results of our digs seem to indicate, or were there others of the deposits with more time depth? Did these guys get chert from anywhere else, or just from that source? Was the area residential, or was this just the job site? Are they getting goods for the production, or is this simply part of the service to the lord?

One of the fascinating things about what we have excavated is how many pieces of really pretty pottery we found mixed in with the lithics. It is not the quantity, so much, as it is the proportion of nice vessels (well, OK, pieces of what were once nice vessels). At one point Antonia asked me "So what did you do? Throw away all the ugly sherds?"

And it is true. There are nice, painted pieces. There was even a beautiful carved sherd with a glyph on it. And almost nothing that looked like everyday cookware. So we now have more questions. What are they celebrating? Is it one event, or is it more like an annual party among the flintknappers? Are these pieces the same as we are finding in the capital, or does it belong to a different set?

The really cool questions are the ones I can get at with chemical analysis (maybe...). The tools that were manufactured at La Estrella, who got them? The local availability of chert (all across the Petén) makes it a very localized commodity. Getting axes from a long-distance exchange network when there is chert literally under your feet would be about like a building supply business owner getting his lumber from Home Depot. In another state. It is simply silly. So the local economy relies on the production of these axes from nearby. And the inhabitants of La Estrella provide them. But to whom? Are they trading them directly with places like Trinidad and Motul? Or are they giving them to the lord of the realm, who is passing them out to the peasants during planting time?

All of the answers to the questions I have will require more money, more time, and more patience in dealing with landowners, none of which I have in excess.

At least my final trip to the border went well. Friday I started out before 5 am; after getting my paperwork processed, I was able to leave by 7:30. That beats my record for the fastest border trip ever. I rewarded myself on the way back with a side trip to an archaeological site just off the road called Holtun.

The site was beautiful. The stucco mask on the front of the principal structure was nice, and the structures all over were interesting (including a ball court and some really nice palace structures). But the real beauty was in the jungle. High canopy, little underbrush, beautiful surroundings. The two groups of howler monkeys welcomed the two of us (a guy who lives nearby walked around the site with me) to the site. There were edible mushrooms on the path, as well as fruits and nuts that Teca shared with me. As he said, "If anyone is dying from hunger in the Petén, it is because he wants to!" And on that day, it certainly seemed that way. Food abounds in the forest, if you know what is OK to eat.

Looting is the one down side to the site.  There was not a single structure that had not been trenched, and some of them had been undoubtedly as productive as the lovely pit Don Diablo Tesucun put into his land at La Estrella.   It is really sad to see such beauty sacked by people who see looting as an easier way to make a living than farming.

Teca and I went back to the road after I was done looking at the site, and he showed me the modest artisan workshop his dad keeps, and the orchids that surround the shop (parasites, he called them). And then took me over to meet his granddad.

Pedro was wonderful.  The old man still stood upright, with steel gray hair shoved under a baseball cap. He moved carefully, but without apparent pain, as he negotiated the way around his yard. He showed me the stingless bee hives I had come to look at, as well as where the monkeys came to hang out in the afternoons when the sun was hot. And the best part of all was that he shared some of the honey from his hives, and it was the best I have ever tasted.

The stingless bees are a bit of an abiding passion with me. I am fascinated by the native apiculture that took place in prehispanic times, and I have taken a bunch of notes from informants in different areas. But this was the first time that someone actually had the honey that I could try. At about $30 per quart, it is the most expensive honey you can find, because the bees from one hive only produce about that

much each year. And the honey is rumored to have medicinal qualities. We talked bees and beekeeping for a while, I finished off the plate of honey he had given me, and I took my leave.

And I took something else with me. For the past week, I have fought the local and federal bureaucracy. I have fought landowners. I have fought crowds around my apartment. I have fought pretty much nonstop. And it seemed to me that there was nothing else here in Guatemala than one fight after another. And talking to Teca's grandfather, I was able to remember what it was that attracts me to the area. The people in the villages can be xenophobic. They can be unfriendly. But they can also be more hospitable than southerners, and every bit as gracious. They can welcome you into their homes and share the very last of what they have with you, without ever thinking of what you will give them. They can give freely of their time, because they genuinely enjoy having the company.

And taking that with me was perhaps the most important event of the week.

21 April 2006

Before I left Peten (I am writing this from Antigua), I sat and talked to Papatulo for a while.  Well, he did the talking, and I tried to pay attention.  What kept me from doing that was not the topic of conversation, but rather the ant.
 
See, an ant had found  its way to Papatulo's t-shirt collar, and was walking around the circumference of his neck about twice a minute.  No real progress, just the impression of progress.  Over and over. 
 
What Papatulo was saying was important, and I was not the only one listening, and it would have been gauche of me to flick off the offending insect.  So I tried to pay attention and watched the ant do lap after lap around Don Jorge's neck. 
 
Guess who has been playing the part of that ant for the past week?
 
After waiting in Peten for a week, sitting and organizing and trying to make time move faster, Miguelito and I finally hit the road to Guatemala.  At the outset of the trip, however, he put his finger on the one thing that was going to trip us up. 
 
"The paperwork says," he intoned, "that the artifacts are going straight to the Office of Monuments in the capital."
 
We talked about the possibilities for a while.  I laid out that I would do whatever Miguelito said, but that I would rather get into Antigua after our 8 hour drive, take a shower and relax a little, put together the other box of artifacts being shipped out, and then go into the capital a little more calmly.  We left it that we would call the boss in the capital as soon as we got into range.
 
We got into range, and told Gustavo that we would be getting to the capital around 6, that we were stuck in traffic, and that we would just go into Antigua and bring the artifacts another day.
 
He said he would wait for us - that we should bring them straight in.
 
Miguelito and I talked about our options, one of which involved going straight to Antigua anyway, and then calling very late and saying we would not be able to make it.  But finally we caved, and decided to drive on over to Monumentos and do what was requested.
 
An hour later, we were involved in one of the worst examples of being thoroughly lost that I have ever experienced.  We were close - we had found Zone 1 (not the safest place in the capital) and we were ticking down the avenues that would lead us to 12th.
 
After vulturing for a half hour, returning to the same spot over and over as we repeatedly circled the t-shirt collar of Zone 1, we asked for directions. 
 
We received wild hand gestures, each sending us in opposite directions.  Which led me to add a new rule in my rulebook for surviving Latin America:
 
Rule #46: When in an urban area with numerous one-way streets, NEVER ask directions from a pedestrian.
 
Three episodes of chicken-entrails divination later, we arrived at the IDAEH offices, unloaded the boxes, and drove the extra hour to Antigua, where we arrived hungry, sore, tired, sweaty and very dirty.  But we arrived.
 
After Miguelito left early the next morning, I started the process of requesting permission to export the artifacts I needed to study for my use-wear analysis.  In terms of the total collection, it is not much - a mere eight boxes out of a total of about 150 - but those boxes are full of rocks, so the weight becomes an issue.
 
But the guys at DHL were really nice, and talked to me about the issues.  At their recommendation, I bought heavy plastic boxes to use instead of the wooden tomato crates I had originally placed them in (current US import laws require that all wood being brought into the country be treated - at a price of $15 per box; new plastic boxes cost ~$10 each).
 
The only real snag, as far as we can tell, is that DHL needs a copy of the export permit before they can give me a firm flight number and time for arrival and departure.
 
And IDAEH needs the flight information before they can issue the export permit.  I suggest that the two communicate, and leave me out of it.  But, of course, the IDAEH guy is not in the office, and won't be for hours.
 
And away this ant goes, around a bureaucratic collar.
 
After settling some difficulties, the guy at DHL made a really awful phone call.  According to the guy in charge of such things, exporting cargo this requires an exporter's license, along with a copy of the receipt I got when I purchased them.  Yeah, like I am going to buy rocks to export.
 
So the whole thing gets revised, and the current quote for shipping goes from $700 to over $1500.  And for a guy who has been out of work for a year and a half, that really hits hard.  I am looking into some other options, but they seem unlikely to pan out.
 
As for the humorous bit for the week, on the trip, Miguelito and I stopped at every roadside vendor to buy some of the local delicacy, whatever it was that that pueblo produced.  At one we bought fresh-pressed cane juice, and at another, we bought fresh pineapple.  But the part I always look forward to the most on this trip was the beautiful, fat, juicy grapes that one community near the capital sells.
 
Miguelito asks, as we are watching her weigh out my half pound of cold grapes, "So, I am looking around, and I don't see any vines.  Where are the vineyards?"
 
"There aren't any," was the reply.  
 
"What!?"  We both looked at each other in surprise.
 
"These grapes are imported from California."
 
Totally duped.  I was so tickled to be buying luscious grapes from a local family, supporting small-scale producers who sell their produce at a roadside stand.  Instead, I was buying cast-offs shipped from California to Guatemala City, and then shipped down the road to this out-of-the-way brace of roadside stands that made it look like it was local produce.  "Why here, then?" I asked.
 
"Because this is where the truck from the capital stops."
 
No matter how long I am here, it never seems to sink in that Guatemala is not a capitalist society.  
 
I will be in Puerto Rico for the SAAs - the archaeological society meetings - a week from today, and then I head back to months of microscope work.  I can't wait to be home.  Wish me luck.
 
Crorey
 

MAY JOURNAL ENTRIES

02 May 2006

Every day's an endless stream of cigarrettes and magazines...



I am feeling very conflicted.  On the one hand, I am overjoyed to leave Guatemala behind.  It has provided me with a hugely valuable experience.  But the frustrations, the fighting with the bureaucracy, the disappointments of the failed grant proposals, the often terrible food, the ordeals with landowners and the difficulties with people have made it, well interesting. 

And time apart from my wife has been awful – she and I have always worked better as a team than we have apart.  She has been wonderfully supportive of me, and has never even suggested that I walk away from the stress of it all and come home.  She has cajoled me out of bad moods, has helped talk me through the difficult times, and has made it possible for me to complete an entire year's work away from home.  She had hand surgery while I was in the field.  She moved away from New Orleans while I was in the lab.  She moved back into the house and helped GianMarco deal with his own flooded house while I was measuring rocks in Guatemala.

As Calvin's dad (of Calvin and Hobbes) would say, suffering builds character.

I just hope that the character it has built has been a nice one.  I have met enough of the other kinds of characters.

But for every bad character I have run across, I have made ten wonderful friends.  For every horrible meal I turned up my nose at, I ate three that I drool as I remember.  For every day filled with self doubt and depression, I have had two that reminded me that I truly love the work I am doing.

The people I have met have been the highlights of the year.  From the cigar-smoking Don Arturo to the sweet, loving Gilberto, I have loved and been loved by the best people in the world this past year.  The people of San José adopted me, and made me feel like I was a part of the family.  My friends in Antigua have opened their homes and hearts to me, as well.  And sometimes, just sometimes, I feel more at home in those two places than I do in either New Orleans or South Carolina.

To end the season, I have run from Petén to Antigua, madly dashed around trying to get stuff taken care of there, flew out to New Orleans for one day, finished my conference paper and got on the plane for Puerto Rico, the site of the annual meetings for the Society for American Archaeology.  Once there, I got stuck in my hotel room (a local protest march closed down transportation to the conference center) for the first day.  I went to see some papers the second day, and then presented my paper on Sunday.  And then hopped on a plane to come home.

Home.  That most magical of words.  I have visited New Orleans briefly a couple of times in the past year and a half.  But now I am here to live.  It is not temporary.  It is not a visit.  I am not a tourist.  I am home.

And even so, it is crazy.  I am running around to get transcripts and letters of recommendation to apply for a job for the Corps of Engineers.  I am running to see whether my artifacts got shipped.  Unpacking from a year in the field and reorganizing all the files that I will need to start writing.  Deciding on books to use when I teach in the fall.  Setting up microscope access for the summer.  Signing this, plugging in that.

I think I am afraid that if I slow down, I will Rip van Winkle for a decade or so.  And as exhausted as I am, it is not out of the realm of possibility.

So, guys, thank you for giving me an audience.  I have given a lot of thought to why I write these things, and have decided that it is more than my desire to be on stage.  It is therapy.  If I take a horrible, stressful situation, and turn it into something ridiculous, then my psyche can deal with it.  Writing turns stress into humor, and suddenly I don't need to cry anymore.

Thank you for being my therapists.  It has been a wild ride, and although I am glad I did it, I am very glad it is over. Now I can finish my analysis and write the dissertation.

Piece of cake.  Now that I am home.

Cloro Laptop