One Man's Trash...

Note: Again, I am very (very) behind on this blog. I've been keeping a pretty good journal but finding a computer that I can use for a good chunk of time has proved..challenging. I'm on 'vacation' now, and have more time, and a computer that I have access to. So promise to catch you guys up.

Moreover, at present time life is great. I've settled into my permanent placement and have gotten into 'real life mode'. People don't even think I'm a tourist any more. They don't even call me 'gringo' any more. These days I get called ''¡Canche!'', Guatemalan spanish for ''Blondie''. Progress. Because that's what they call blonde headed Guatemalans, a sign that I'm now part of the community, just the weird light skinned part.

Despite life being great, this post is old, and from a not so great time. So again, I apologize for another morose post. But I'm working on an exceptionally cheery one, that will make up for these. I only talk about these things because they are important. This post is months old, but very important. So, here we go:

One Man's Trash...
Waste is worse than loss. The time is coming when every person who lays claim to ability will keep the question of waste before him constantly. The scope of thrift is limitless. -Thomas Edison-

We took a mini-van shuttle into Guatemala City. I Do Not Like Guatemala City. It smells of exhaust and sweat and gasoline and tires and sewage and burning plastic. Worse off, sometimes it just down right stinks. The sea of humanity crashes and slams into the streets, sidewalks, roads, houses, stores, buses. It wraps around you and drowns you. You taste it. Smell it. Hear it. Feel it. People, People and more people. Lots of people.

And here I was, in my little dingy. The mini van. Brave enough to open the window and stick my head out and look at this vast vast sea of humanity. Knowing that soon I was about to jump into it. Dive into it. Head first. Open ocean. And I was going to dive down deep. Really deep. To a dark spot that you see things that you didn't know could exist and you see the seedy underbelly of the sea. This sea of humanity, deep into it. Today we were going to visit the Garbage Dump.

We had heard a little bit about it ahead of time. Just a paragraphs worth. Just enough to make us worry with nervous anxious...dread.

We had heard that its the largest dump in Central America and serves not only the nearly 3 million inhabitants of Guatemala City but most of the country as well. I knew that the dump was more than 40 acres of land and taller than most buildings around it. I knew that in 2005 a build up of methane gas exploded and killed a few people who lived there. And now squatting mostly in land adjacent to the dump people still live there.

People live there? What does that mean? I sat and thought about what that meant. Not knowing that (according to some estimates) 21,000 people live and work in and around the dump. Earning their livelihood, bottom feeding off the waste of humankind.

But I didn´t know that as we got out of the bus. As we got out of the bus and looked at a vast and sureal landscape of...trash. A landscape in exact opposite of the rest of Guatemala. People say Guatemala is made for photographs, all you have to do is shoot and print and you get a beautiful picture. Its true. But here there was a vivid contrast of the beautiful landscape that lays everywhere you look in Guatemala. Behind me was a range of volcanoes covered in trees beautiful in ways that only a photograph on a postcard can attempt to visualize. And in front of me a landscape that mirrors the volcano range, but mountains of garbage instead.

The air is thick and yellow with dust and methane. It coats you, inside and out with a grime that stings the eyes, sticks in the corners of your mouth and nostrils and makes your skin itch. Birds are circling overhead. Dogs are running around. People are silhouetted standing amongst the piles. Bending over, sifting through the garbage. A truck pulls up and people rush to it, arguing for their place to stand next to it. Whats in it? I wonder. A man jumps on the back and opens it while the truck moves forward again spilling its contents as it goes. I squint and look and realize whats inside. Its garbage. More garbage. Fresh, un-scavenged garbage. Kids run by me, barefoot, dirty and scrawny. One stops and touches me on the arm. It jolts me from my trance, the anti-aesthetic moment I was locked into.

Hhelow Gud Mornink. He says and runs away in a way that comes from learning to speak english from non engilsh speakers.

My group starts to move, and I move to. Not listening. But hearing. Hearing and looking. Looking at everything. Looking and hearing and tasting and smelling and feeling so much more than the very best of authors could express.

But my group is walking, so I walk to. Through streets lined with houses made of literally garbage, filled with garbage, furnished with garbage. On top of the houses are stacks of organized, separated, compiled, packed...garbage. People walk by me carrying sacks of garbage. Another yellow truck pulls by and dumps out a precious load of...garbage

I am swimming, diving, treading water in garbage. All I see is garbage. They say that when people fall overboard into the empty ocean the imediate response is to swim towards the direction of land, however far away, and forget the boat. So, unwillingly, thats what I did. We walked away from the minivan and went further into this garbage sea.

I catch up to the guide, speaking spanish beyond my level and no one is translating.(oh how I want to return now that I can speak spanish!) But I´m catching bits and pieces:

These...people..we see..they live.. close to the place of garbage... they work inside of the place of garbage... many of the people.. don't have... jobs......houses.......trash.....how sad.......look.........everything they have....place of garbage......their things are all trash....they...to buy....nothing...they don't have money... what they have is from the place of garbage.... for to eat to drink to sell they....................for money...... in the place of garbage....recycling... plastic......... ..........to sell...collect....a little bit of money.

Wait. I say. Wait. Please someone explain to me in english.

So I was told: Everything these people own is from the dump. They don't have money because they don't have jobs and they cant get jobs because they don't have money for a house and cant live in the street even if they had jobs so they come here. They squat and live in these houses you see here. They are all made from trash that was found in the dump. Most everything they own they found in the dump. Most of what they eat and drink came from the dump. They earn money by recycling. They find plastic and glass and cans separate them and try and sell them. But its only a very very little bit of money.

Hearing that suddenly killed my desire to know what was being said in the gaps I didn't understand. At the same time made me profoundly sad that I couldn't understand this woman.

We walked and I decided that I was just going to see everything because I couldn't understand everything being said. I focused on that. Seeing. In a way starting to tune out the guide.

What is burned vivid in my memory is seeing us. Watching us 6 gringos. That is fixed in my memory. Especially seeing myself. I was more guilty as well, possibly more. How we walked around like we were at a museum. Gazing at these exhibits of hardship as if they were just that. An exhibit. Taking a tour of these peoples lives with our fancy clothes and cameras. Wow, look at that! How sad! How incredible! What a great pic!

A museum. A zoo. Where we couldn't touch anything. We clutched our bags and purses scared of this fascinating sight. (In defense, we had good reason. Before we moved away from Antigua my Ipod had been stolen and my friend's wallet had been stolen which had all the important things. However, to my knowledge, nothing was stolen that day at the dump.) We walked around rigid and hid behind our shields of little bottles of purel instant hand sanitizer. We didn't want to touch anything. We didn't like it when people touched us. We just want a tour thank you. We just want to see thank you. Oh good morning to you to. Where is my purel?

I came to hate those little bottles of purel.

A museum. A zoo of hardship and these peoples lives like we have a right to be there as paying tourists. Oh the dignity.

I realized this and wanted to not be part of the group. I did not want to look like I was part of the group and I especially did not want to feel like I was part of that group. I hung to the back, tried to not look like a gringo. Hard task. Like a peacock following a flock of peacocks through a heard of penguins. I stopped listening to the guide all together. I started shaking hands. I started saying good morning. I wish I had the words to do more. To ask these people their lives, to sit down and talk with them. To try and live with them. All I could do was shake hands and say good morning. Hardly any better, probably worse. I still kick myself for not knowing spanish then. But I swore to myself not to pull out the purel I had in my pocket.

My boss stopped me and told me a story the guide had told. I hadn't been listening. Even if it was in english, I probably wouldn't have been listening. But gave it a shot. Marcia has a smile and a way about her that doesn't necessarily command attention or beg attention; but just makes you want to give her attention. Who knows.

Our guide used to live in the dump herself. She scavenged and lived off the dump. One day inside all the garbage she found some meat wrapped up in paper that hadn't completely rotted. So she took it home, prepared it and fed it to her kids and ate it herself. Oh she was pregnant at the time. It turns out the meat had been poisoned, they do that here and feed it to stray dogs to kill them. They all got sick and nearly died. (Some might have died, I don't remember the details because soon after..)

We came to the edge of a brand new squatter community. They had moved in a mass, worked together and took over unused land and started squatting. A full city block or more full of one big shanty town. People living in 'tents' for lack of a better word. Two sticks, a torn tarp, and some string. Suddenly I felt guilty and angry.

I wanted to do something. Anything. Do something you fool! QUIT BEING A TOURIST AND DO SOMETHING! But I couldn't. I knew that, the people knew that, my group new that and my organisation knows that. I was Angry. Angry in a way that forces me to look up swear words in the thesaurus while writing this. Here we go, Furious. I was Furious.

Furious at the situation these people were in. Furious at the social structure that locked them into this. Furious that I couldn't do anything. Furious at the social injustice of it all. Furious that my organisation encourages the belief that even though I cant do anything, I shouldn't do anything, and that's okay. That I'm supposed 'to be and not do'. That me being there was enough and that doing something is not only impossible but unhelpful and even harmful. But I was Furious. I can do something. Anything!. I can hammer nails, I can build houses, I can distribute food, I can shovel, I can work, I can help! I can work and I can help! I can help these people! But I can't. I can't really help these people. I knew that. So I was just being. Being Furious. Being (a word that starts with a P and my momma would hit me for publishing).

I know and knew that there was little or nothing I could do to help these people. But I wanted to. I really really wanted to. And still believe I can. I still believe I should. But thats more than I can give right now. More than any person can give. But I want to try. Right now, and even more so then, I didn't want to BE. I especially didn't want to be there at that moment. I questioned those two words (to be and to do) so much and still am. Without answers. So I was just frustrated and furious. I was being alright, being of no use. Being offensive. Being a tourist. Being a guilty tourist.

So walked around. I shook hands. I said good morning.
I shook hands. I said good morning.

I shook hands.

Abono Sangre. Blood Fertilizer

(Foot notes: 1. Written on paper prior to posting, occurred some time ago, 2. I have references for all the information.)


A disclaimer: This will not be a happy post. You will not read stories of how great life is down here, this will not be a post PCUSA will use to recruit new YAVS. I will attempt to use language that is suitable for all audiences; but on this subject, few soft words exist. It will be somber, morose, at times gruesome, and sadly entirely true. Proceed and read with caution and this understanding. I am sorry, these things need to be said.

I once heard that Guatemala’s biggest curse, and biggest blessing, is its fertile soil. It is arguably the best place on the earth for agriculture, which has cursed its existence since before Columbus gambled on heading west. It is often said that, the soil is fantastic because it's been fertilized with the sweat and tears of its inhabitants and (and as I learned today) also with the blood of its citizens.

Today we traveled to a village and spoke with a group of Mayan women. They are a collective of traditional weavers, coming together out of hardship with the same goal: to make their cloth and create a better life for themselves and their children. They told us stories of this hardship. They told us stories of events few have heard about back home, or only partially heard. They told us stories of a time so brutal it's only known as "the violence". They told us stories of a time where 200,000 or 600,000 (depending on how you count) people died. How more people died in Guatemala during this time than the entire American contents combined. A time where so many human rights abuses occurred, The Truth Commission’s Report was 1500 pages long, abridged. They told us stories of a dark dark time in Guatemala that The States choose to ignore because part and part they (we) were and are responsible. They told us stories, first hand in a way that even the finest of HBO reenactment documentaries couldn't achieve. They told us stories in which I learned new Spanish vocabulary words, because dictionaries and teachers don't teach you words that horribly gruesome. Words that (for example) would translate to 'operation' but have the same connotation as a scalping. Words that we don’t even have in English. But, despite this and the fact that my weak words will never truly show these events, I will attempt to share them with you, because WE NEED TO KNOW.

First a brief background history.

In the 40's there was a grassroots response to the dictatorship, which was a rightist and military takeover of Guatemala with more or less an objective of zero peasant’s rights. In 1944 there was an uprising by a group known as the October Revolutionaries. They won power and made liberal reforms, and strengthened the poor working and farming classes. There was a time of peace and prosperity in Guatemala with a hope for the future that surpassed all others, past and present.

But Jacob Arbenz (the leader) had many policies that were not in US interest. Like agrarian reform that took the land from big powerful gringo businesses in the states and gave it back to poor families who for the first time in a long time could afford to eat. Also this new and grand government smelled very very communistic. All in a time we know as 'The Red Scare' and communism was something to be feared and exterminated. It was feared that Guatemala was under Soviet influence and as Allen Dulles (deemed father of the Guatemala overthrow) said ''Guatemala [was] a soviet beachhead in the Western hemisphere.'' The final nail in Guatemala's coffin, Arbenz made sweeping land reform, which took vast tracts of, claimed but unfarmed fertile land from the US owned United Fruit Company and redistributed them to nationalized Guatemalan peasant unions. Both Dulles, his brother and many cabinet members in the (exceptionally Macarthy-ist) Ezinhower administration were all shareholders in this company.

So a covert, CIA backed overthrow was planned and carried through. Resulting in the 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état. It trained an ad-hoc 'liberation army' of about 400 fighters under the command of exiled Guatemalan General Carlos Armas. This was coupled with economic and diplomatic pressure as well as a successful propaganda campaign (painting Arbenz communist so well, that it is still largely, and falsely, believed to this day. It was successful, and the government was overthrown and replaced with a puppet 'democracy' that was in US interests.

After Armas took office he began to dismantle a decade of reforms and outlawed any progressive programs like labor and agriculture unions, deeming them 'communist'. And despite the fact that Guatemalan's population is over half indigenous Mayan (and often poor); the wealthy European descendents (known as Ladinos) owned most of the land more or less 70%. There was, and still mostly is, absurd amounts of discrimination both structurally and in the minds and hearts of the people. The military penetrated and controlled all levels of people's lives. The people, especially the Mayans lived in a very “1984” life-style. But as typical Mayan fashion, did so in silence. However dissidence was growing, and in the meantime back home in the states we were training elite soldiers in our infamous School of the Americas. The military was growing in numbers, and capability. For what? Guatemala never intended to fight a great war, nor needed to defend against invaders. These soldiers were to 'defend' against Guatemalans. These soldiers would later prove to be the most ruthless and vicious soldiers America could be 'proud to call our own'.

The first strike of the revolution came in the 60's and was by middle class intellectuals and students under the Guatemalan Party of Labor. They were a communist party and really only served to give justification to 'kill the commies' from both Guatemala and the USA. They also managed to murder Castillo Armas, which again, gave reason to tighten the militaries grip. They fought forces trained in the US and bearing US weapons sold cheap. and failed miserably.

Under increasing pressure a handful of military officers revolted, failed and went into hiding in Cuba. Cuba would serve as a think tank and inspiration for the insurrection that would last for an astounding 36 years. The guerillas were dug in among the predominantly Mayan southeastern region.

US green berets were deployed and served as trainers for the counter-revolutionary forces. US security adviser John Longan stayed in country and worked with the army in what was named ''operation cleanup''. Which carried out captures and assassinations in what professor of history Greg Grandin has described as "the first systematic wave of collective counterinsurgent 'disappearances'' in Latin America.''

Words changed meanings. Suddenly words like 'different' became "scary''. 'Disagree' meant ''unpatriotic'' and ''dangerous''. If you even spoke out against the government, you disappeared. Giving irony to the national news paper named "the free press''. It was so prevalent that 'disappear' became 'to disappear'. As in, "he was disappeared'' or the threatening ''I will disappear you'' and ''you will be disappeared.''

Through the years, the guerillas made small isolated attacks on the government. They strived not to involve civilians (mostly because they needed them for the revolution). They attacked government rail lines, weapons storage buildings, assassinated key officials. And all experts agree that they never really posed a real threat to the National Army. However, through a successful propaganda campaign the government spoon-fed lies to the people, that guerillas were attacking schools, churches, and hospitals. That they were a growing menace and a threat to Guatemalan life. The propaganda portrayed them as murderous savages with no regard for human life. The government even went as far as attacking these places in costume as guerillas, and blamed them for the attack.

Meanwhile, the government decided the best way to kill a rat in the barn is to set the barn on fire. They began systematically and horrifically murdering people and destroying places believed to be guerillas, guerilla sympathizers or guerilla hideouts. They murdered anyone left of center. They killed priests and doctors and teachers and community leaders. And claimed them as victories against the red menace. They slaughtered Mayans, burned crops, wiped villages off the map, left only dead. They committed horrible horrible human rights abuses which experts have said rival the conflicts in Africa and are even comparable to the holocaust.
It is reported 90% of the atrocities and over 400 massacres were by the National Guatemalan Army and only less than 5% by the organized guerilla movement. 83% of the victims were Maya. Terror was used as a deliberate policy.

Clandestine ''prisons'' were established in every army base, police stations, and even homes. Here cruel, inhumane torture was commonplace. Interrogation practices outlawed in everything from the Geneva Convention to common moral decency were all in a days work. Afterwards, the ''suspected guerillas'' were executed or disappeared.

The state magnified and fabricated the guerilla's intentions, size, actions and political identity. If something or someone was at all left of center or opposed to government actions; it was branded communist (something the government said every man should fear and hate) and annihilated. Under this guise, they were able to justify the government’s crimes. In short they justified dehumanizing the Mayan population and people with discourse. Which justified extermination.

One example in Las Dos Erres, '82. The abuses included “burying some alive in the village well, killing infants by slamming their heads against walls, keeping young women alive to be raped over the course of three days." This was not an isolated incident. Rather it was one of over 400 massacres documented by the truth commission – many of which, according to the commission, constituted acts of genocide.

US forces began aiding the national military in the mid 60's. Between the years of 1966–68 alone some 8,000 peasants were murdered by the U.S. trained forces of Colonel Arana Osorio. Sociologist Jeffrey M. Paige alleges that Arana Osorio "earned the nickname "The Butcher of Zacapa" for killing 15,000 peasants to eliminate 300 suspected rebels."
The worst part is the stories. The first hand accounts. Numbers are nothing compared to faces. The stories are what you really feel. Stories of girls under the age of 15 being kidnapped and used for rape objects and kept in boxes without food or water till they died. Of men being crucified and forced to watch their wives and daughters be raped. Of seeing mothers being tied to a post and decapitated with a baby abandoned, still nursing on its dead mother. Stories of a village fleeing the coming forces only to return to their houses burning, their crops burning; the only 'food' offered by the soldiers: a daughter too slow to escape, on a spit roaster (from crotch to mouth) over a fire. Of pregnant mothers having their babies cut out of them and forced to eat it. Of murdering entire villages and putting the heads on pikes by the road as a warning. Of having to live hiding in the mountains with no food or water for weeks; watching the soldiers live in your houses, eat your food, rape your family. Stories. Personal, real, horrible stories. Stories of the worst kind of humanity. The part that out of fear and hate can claim a person isn't a person, only a menace to be exterminated.

We heard stories like these. First hand. They cried. We cried. "It is difficult to hear these things." I said. "It is difficult to say them.,” they said. "It is difficult to remember them.” they said. "It was difficult to live them.” they said. I couldn't say more. So we sat and listened. All we could say was sorry, as if that at all helped. But it didn't, and everyone knew that. We were sorry. We were hurt. But there was nothing we or anyone else could do to take away that pain. I felt helpless and undeserving.

I don't want to remember those things I heard, but it's dangerous to forget. It's dangerous to forget how US involvement or even ideology can cause horrendous things. It is dangerous to forget how hate and fear can cause these things. We can't forget.

When it was done, when everyone had told their stories, we ate. We tried to forget those things. The Guatemalans are very good at forgetting. It comes with practice. We laughed and talked and ate delicious food. I bought a bracelet, in part because I felt I should support this cause, in part because I was vain enough to think that might help. But mostly because, I don't want to forget. I will see it everyday, carry it with me always, and remember. Remember. We have to remember.

We drove back to Antigua, I sat in the back of the van, alone. I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to talk about our 'problems'. What problems?

We arrived and I walked back home. Back home to my very conservative, very right wing family. Back home to my father, a Colonel. in the military, who had studied in the USA, who had to have been involved. Back home to good people, honest people, people that I love but so badly want to hate. Back home to a family, for better or worse, that is kind enough to use simple vocabulary and grammar for my simple spanish. This time it was for worse.

I walked in and my mother, my kind, hard working wonderful mother, noticed I was sad. "What’s wrong?" "We visited the Mayans and heard stories of 'the violence'. It was hard to hear those things." And my father, my kind, intelligent, loving, caring, wonderful father says: "True, but it was necessary. We had to do It." and shrugs. That shrug hurt, alot.

All I could say was ''I understand.''
I went to my room.
I looked at my bracelet.
and I wept.

What day is it?

Oh I've seldom had time to think, let alone journal! My life has been, as a Guatemalan said "a duras penas". And there really isn't an english equivalent that conveys that statement. But the literal translation will give you an idea. "untiring toil". I suppose "0f exceptional difficulty" may get close.

Regardless, where should I begin? Well I wake up at 5 am and study spanish flash cards till 6 am. My dad wakes up at 6 am. Then I try in vain to have converstaion. Despite the fact that I spend every hour working on my spanish, I still have the vocabulary of a toddler. For sometime we try and speak to each other. He trys to baby talk me. I try to pick out words that I know while he speaks muy raidemente. However, I've mastered such phrases as:
"I don't know those words yet"
"I don't understand"
"I'm sorry"
"Can you please repeat that?"
"One more time?"
etc.

At 6:30 my host father takes my host sibblings to school. I do a weeks worth of spanish homework from a book written in spanish for I'd say the next 30 minutes.

Next, my host mother and I drink bitter bitter instant coffee with no cream or sugar. We talk about what my home is like. I confuse her because I don't know past tense congigations yet. She laughs when I say things like. "in the days before today, i am eating cerreal with milk that is cold. In texas they are eating cerreal that has cold milk all of the days that they eat cerreal."

She tells me that I need to study spanish more.

But I make up for it by telling her stuff like "i love much your cooking"; "I eat like a king here" and "your house is pretty". And i mean it, the house i sbeautiful and the cookin gis usually really good.

Then I eat breakfast. Which alwyas has corn flakes in hot milk. A bread they call "the french bread". It comes in loaves about the size of a hot dog bun. It's hard on the outside like french bread but a texture on the inside exactly halfway between "old dry sponge" and "stale cotton candy".

I finish eating and say thanks. She always responds with some phrase I haven't learned yet with a pace to quick to even be able to parrot back to the lucky multi-linguistic folks. So I nod and smile.

I go back to my room pack up my back pack and sit on my bed. My bed is comfortable but I share it with a family of bugs of unknown species that like to bite my flesh. However, I'm moving up in the world; for my pillow at first I had a towel folded up in a pillow case. Now I have a couch pillow. I listen to music and try and cram a few dozen more vocab ords into my skull. I go use the toilet (sans toilet seat) and curse my diet of 70% beans, 20% carbs and 10% starches. On a side note, you can't flush toilet paper here, you put it in a trash can besides the toilet, where it sits until it fills up, about a week later. One more side note on poop, if you eat alot of beets, your poop will be red and it will scare you.

Anyway, then I try to explain to my mom when I will get home, despite always forgetting the necesary vocabulary, as well has having no idea what my group is planning for the day. I leave and walk to school, only 4 blocks. It's over cobble stone, with no sidewalks and uphill both ways. Truth. Every guatemalan is excpetionally friendly and loves to start conversations and give you puzzled looks when you babble like a 5 year old who doesn't listen to what you say.

School it's self isn't so bad, but trying to learn in a few weeks what few learn in years has it's moments of frustration and confusion. At 10 we take a break and I saver it. At 10:30 we resume and my teacher quickly gets frustrated as I forget sutuff we learned yesterday. But she is kind and patient. Try explaining to a toddler the meaning and concept of the word "of" with only having him understand half the words you are using. I wouldn't be patient.

After class, most days me and my group get together and (what else?) study spanish. I walk home, usually in the rain. (Guatemala only has 2 seasons "it's wet" and 'it's dry". Currently, we're in the wet.) I get home and eat dinner with my family and then do my homework and go to sleep at 10 pm. Study eat study eat study eat study sleep and repeat, all commentated in a language I don't speak.

Jealous?

Well you should be.

No matter how bad my day is or how much I grow tired of this language I can simply look up at the horizon and it goes away. I'm surrounded by the most beautiful landscape I've ever whitnessed. Every blink of th eye is straight out of a post card. To call this place "picturesque" is an injustice to it's majesty. The best cammeras modern man has can not capture this beauty.

I get to do amazing things that few people you'll meet have.

I get to hike through the jungle/forest up a mountain. Climb over volcanic rock and roast marshmellows over flowing hot lava. Metal.

I get to eat wild, fresh fruit, straight off a tree thats centuries old.

I get to explore ruins of colonial catholic churches and convents and touch centuries old paint on the walls.

I get to watch joyous old ladies weave the most beatuiful clothing and material by hand 1 thread at a time.

I get to, without words, play soccer with my host brother and friend and laugh my self till I cry.

I see more stars than I knew existed.

I always hear people laughing.

I hear a boy, who doesn't know I understand him, tell his friends that "Guillermo(spanish for william) is a good man. Guillermo is a very good man!"

I get to eat fresh, home made ice cream after a looong hot day in an overflowing bus.

I get to astonish an old man with a cheap magic trick and have him call me "la ponderosa".

I always have a hot homeade tortilla.

And I could go on and on and on.

I can't worry. I can't be impleasent
"no caber por mas gozo" -- "there isn't room for more joy"

Mailing Instructions for Young Adult Volunteers in Guatemala

Alright amigos! I´m expecting them care packages!

OPTION 1
If you want to send a letter or a small package that will probably take a few weeks to reach me but will be free for me to receive, send it THROUGH THE US POSTAL SERVICE to the following address. Don’t send things of great value this way. If possible instead of using a box for a package, pack things in a large manila envelope – this will greatly decrease the chance of it being stopped in Guatemala customs and me thus having to pay to receive it.

Willem Stockton
Apartado Postal #315
Antigua, Guatemala

OPTION 2
If you have something very small and light that absolutely needs to reach me quickly and securely even if it is expensive for the me to pay to receive it, send it THROUGH THE US POSTAL SERVICE to the following address. This is a courier service, so you’re sending it to a U.S. address and they’ll deliver it to Guatemala – this is less expensive for you but much more expensive for me living on a small stipend. I will have to pay about U.S. $3 to receive an envelope, and much more to receive a package, so don’t use this unless it’s important and you’ve talked to the volunteer about it. The same advice as above applies for preparing packages in manila envelopes.

For letters or magazine-sized envelopes:

Willem Stockton
P.O. Box 669004
Miami Springs, FL 33266

For packages or to send things through FedEx, UPS, or if a signature is required upon receipt, etc:

Willem Stockton
c/o Oscar Membreño
14431 S.W. 168 Terrace
Miami, FL 33177

The Honeymoon

I'm sitting at my desk and it's raining.  It's fantastic.  I'm staying a few days at what can best be described as a catholic monastery in Antigua.  It is beautiful here.  I can walk a few blocks down to a restaurant, get on the roof and see the entire city.  A huge volcano called "Vulcan de Aguas" (google image search it), is to the south, right outside of town, covered in trees and peaking out just above the clouds.  Green mountains surround the city.  There are simple houses and buildings blocked out in a cobble stone grid polka doted with catholic colonial cathedrals and architecture. Beautiful with their firm yet graceful sculptures of excess and poverty.  I smell things I'm not sure I've ever smelled before, things my senses strain to remember but can't.   We eat alot of rice and alot of beans.  Cucumbers, tomatoes, a dish that resembles tuna salad but is made with beef.

The roads are cobblestone with sidewalks only wide enough for single file.  Nuns walk around and smile at me.  School kids in uniform crowd the streets when school lets out at 1 pm.  Time has slowed down. Everyone smells the roses, everyone says "buenos dias"

In guatemala city it's different.  It smells of smog and unfiltered exhaust fumes, of storm drains and burnt radiator belts.  Cars and busses and trucks and semis and vans and 18 wheelers all weave inches between each other on streets that the word "crowded" just doesn't convey.  Tiny little motorcycles cut between lanes or on sidewalks when it's easier.  All I hear are cars, all I see is the endless sea of humanity.  I don't like guatemala city.

But in Antigua things are different.  Here there is peace.  Beauty. Simplicity.

In Antigua there is rain.

There is joy.

There is God. 

Short and sweet.

I don't have much time to post. I've been keeping a journal so expect more soon. For now just know I'm in NY NY and everything is going well. Flight sucked but it taught me 3 laws of nature

1.) everything is connected to everything.
I met folks that knew folks I know

2. Everything's got to go somewhere.
Millions of people fly and need to get where they're going just as bad as you.

and 3.) there is no such thing as a free lunch.
Especially in the air port.

More soon!
I love all of you.

A Call to Arms...

Well mi amigos. I'll be leaving the country to soon to gather up all your contact info. So! If you're at all hoping to receive mail, email or postcards (with cool Guatemalan stamps on it!); please click the "Comment" link below (following the words 8:02 AM) and leave your email, and address in the form that pops up. After I write it down I'll promptly delete the comment to keep your info private. If you're concerned about giving out your personal details (understandably so!) then you can email me your info at Willemstockton@gmail.com. I'll be updating the information on how to contact me when the logistics are set and I anxiously await your care packages, especially cookies!

Thank you all for your endless support, I couldn't do it without you!