Here I am in Antigua Guatemala.
I wasn’t
feeling very well just after my Spanish lessons started yesterday. Not sure what it was. Just a bit off. Burpy.
Possibly nauseous? I don’t
know. Off. Unlike a regular class in which I could hide
in back and pass the time, it was just me and the instructor sitting together
one-on-one for four hours with a blessed half hour break. I made it through, though, and trudged over
the pretty cobblestones, past the enormous volcano with the setting sun
illuminating the clouds around the giant Volcan Agua.
I nestled
into my bed beneath the tablecloth and wall hanging that I am using as spare
blankets to ward off the chill in the unheated room. I know it isn’t 20 degrees but even 50
degrees without heat at night is cold.
When I went shopping in the market, I couldn’t find a blanket I liked
that I would be able to fit in my suitcase at the end of my time here, so I
bought tablecloth and a wall hanging and stretched them across my bed. They seem to serve the purpose though every
evening I find myself climbing in the bed to ward off the chill and falling
asleep between 8 and 10 before admitting that I’m asleep and getting up to
brush my teeth and turn in.
As I
snuggled into my bed, I knew that I would regret waking up and having to drag
myself off to some restaurant for dinner.
One of the downsides of my current adventure is always having to feed
myself. Even though the food here is
probably the best vegetarian eats I’ve ever had while traveling, it is still a
pain to always be thinking about when I will eat next and where I will go and
how much it will cost. At the very
beginning of my trip to Guatemala, TSA confiscated my jar of emergency peanut
butter from my carryon baggage, holding it high for all the other passengers
who had passed security to see, lifting it in the air disdainfully. I felt embarrassed, as though I was the sort
of traveler who had forgotten she was carrying a gallon jug of water in her
belongings. Peanut butter? How was I
supposed to know that peanut butter counts as a liquid? The agent asked me snidely if I wanted to
leave security and check my bag so that I could hang onto my peanut
butter. I gritted my teeth, thanked him
for coming to work without pay, during the government shutdown, and continued
on my journey.
I knew that
after my nap, I would have to drag myself off to find some food, but I assured
myself that I could grab some chips or something at the nearby tienda. I managed to ignore the intermittent
fireworks that had punctuated the whole day.
These, I had learned, were part of the celebration for Cristo Negro,
black Jesus, who was important in a church in another part of Guatemala. January 15.
Black Jesus. Check. Guatemala is still celebrating Christmas, too. When I asked, I was assured that the giant
nativity scene at the school would be taken down on February 2, which seemed to
be an important holiday. I assumed it
wasn’t Groundhog Day.
I slipped
underneath my bedspread, tablecloth, and wall hanging and drifted sweetly off
to sleep for a few minutes. And then I
heard the marimba.
It wasn’t so
much hearing the marimba as feeling it
as the sound system amplified the giddy notes so that they carried across courtyards
and entered my bones. Most structures in
Guatemala are set up with rooms around a central courtyard, and any noise
carries. But with the marimba, I felt
the meaning of surround sound in a way I have never experienced in any
theater. The glorified xylophone with
its sound permeating the air was punctuated by the toc toc toc of some kind of
percussion. At least xylophones serve
the important purpose of representing the X word in alphabet books. What possible purpose does the marimba serve?
The marimba,
it turns out, is the national instrument of Guatemala. There are times when I wonder how the United
States can be so confident of its superiority, but then there are other times. Jazz, I thought. Rock and roll, I thought. Marimba, I endured.
The song
never ended. Once it galloped its way
through one tune, it looped into another, never quite changing tempo. And just as I felt I had made peace with the
incessant optimism of the notes and had been able to concentrate on something
else, there would be a giddy key change that would demand my attention. There was no tuning out the marimba.
At this
point it was only around 6:30 pm. I felt
a little better after my nap, at least I think I did (it was hard to tell with
the racket), and I wondered, dreaded how long the marimba would last. Surely, you don’t hire a marimba for a mere
half an hour? I had some hope, though
because it wasn’t the weekend; it was only Tuesday night.
I forced
myself to go out for a tienda dinner, planning to visit the convenience store
to scrounge something up. From the shiny
packages of potato chips and cookies, I selected a bag of pretzels, which
seemed somehow healthier, but once I got back to my room—and back to the
pulsing marimba—I realized that I had chosen a “Conga Mix,” an unfortunate
combination of pretzels, raisins, plantains, peanuts, and corn chips. My nausea returned. I had tried a yoga class earlier in the day
and now my back hurt. The fireworks
continued. The marimba player took a
break, and now the Macarena blared instead. I stuffed in my ear plugs and laughed at their uselessness.
Soon I
laughed at my whole day and thought about how much I love to travel. Despite the fireworks of black Jesus, the
brutal marimba, the queasiness, the back pain, and the Conga Mix, I felt glad
to be here. Mercifully, the party ended
at midnight. Then, I slept.
