Having not had a chance to write in several weeks, I'm writing now to justify my absence. Lately work has been quite hectic with my various responsibilities, and I can't say that I'm complaining - I feel like I've finally gotten to a point with my group of guys at which they know what I'm capable of, and now expect more of me. I have to say that I most definitely prefer this to the way things were working before now - which basically consisted of looking for any kind of work in which i felt i could contribute and forcefully inserting myself into the mix. That said, my main responsibility right now is to promote the recently formed Coffee Cooperative that was initially an objective of the NGO to which I was assigned by Peace Corps. To calrify a little, a coffe coop in Guatemala is an organization that allows producers to unite, sell their products at a higher price in larger quantities while reinvesting the profits in the community. Now, with the departure of SID (the NGO that is currently my host country agency)in sight, we are analzying the uncertain future of the Cooperative, based on several factors (to mention a few; competition with another funded organization, history of violence against coops during the armed conflict and lack of trust in organizations on the part of the local coffee growers). So, in order to secure the future of our Co-op, we've taken the steps to initiate a promotion project, which is very fortunately right up my alley. To put it in my own words, I am totally psyched to be doing this because it is the first project where I can say that i have experience in the matter and can offer appropriate analysis and useful insight.
So, in line with this promotion plan we've entered several channels of publicity, one of which has taken the form of a presentation given directly to small groups of the NGO's participants by yours truly. While this method presents several obstacles, it offers one main benefit in that they all grow coffee and are more or less all familiar with the practices the NGO teaches to producers. These groups have ranged from 4 to 30 so far, and each one has been distinct from the last. Having met with about 15 groups so far, we've gotten together in classrooms, patios, offices, bedrooms and even under make shift standings when it's been raining - basically anywhere we can make it happen. Aside from one presentation I gave to the group of trainees that recently arrived, they've all been in the villages and far reaching small communities of our town - in spanish, aldeas.
One thing about the groups in the aldeas of our town is that their average level of Spanish is generally lower due to restricted access, and in general people are much more comfortable speaking Kaqchikel. So, keeping this in mind I've been taking more Kaqchikel class and tailoring class to specific vocabulary that is applicable to my presentation. This has been succesful to a certain extent, in that the participants realize that I'm trying very hard to connect with them on a more personal level, but at other times it makes little difference. I'd like to share my experience with one group that represents some of the obstacles we're facing not only in the promotion, but in working in the aldeas and with local farmers in general.
My very first presentation was given in a community called Patoquer to a group of participants registered to recieve the practices promoted by SID. We arrived a little late, but the participants had not all arived yet, so we ended up waiting for another 45 minutes and started about an hour late, which is not too far off from the standard delay ("Hora Chapina," or the Guatemalan phenomenon of consistent tardiness clears this up neatly). Once we got everyone situated in the family's kitchen, I began my presentation - which generally lasts about an hour to an hour and a half depending on the level of participation and number of questions and the extent of translation (Luckily all of the promoters which accopmany me to the group meetings are from the aldeas themselves and are readily available to translate if need be). It consists of several parts; individual introductions, a game that teaches the importance of teamwork, information on what a cooperative does and what it means to be part of our organization (CIACEP RL - or Cooperative Integral Agricola Cafe Especial Poaquileno - by the way, i was not present at the naming). At this particular training, about 15 people showed up and were actively participating up until the point in the presentation when i get around to the punchline of the presentation. There I was, flaling about in my enthusiasm for the idea of coopertivism and moments before sharing the crucial information about our organizaiton the women in the group (there were about 15 of them)slowly start to sneak out of the room, one by one. Then groups of three and four and before i knew it I was left with only my coworker, a talkative gentleman who wasn't particularly in favor of the idea and one older lady who looked like she would've left too if she'd have had in it in her to get up. I went from having a lively group of 17 possible associates to three unlikely candidates and was wondering what could've gone wrong to cause this. Well my answer wasn't hard to find - after finishing my presentation, trying to conceal my hurt pride, i found out that a meeting in the house a few doors down had been giving away one pound bags of rice in exhancge for attendance. When your target audience lives from hand to mouth, this is hard to compete with.
I could go on forever about this, but I'll save you the time and just leave it at this; there are significant obstacles to our work everyday that are only being exacerbated by the practices of other organizations. My organization has to deal with this concept of paternalism on a daily basis. Although we work parallel to these organizations who still practice it (by giving away coffee plants or paying their administrative bodies etc.) we can't compete, and when it comes down to loyalty, we've found that it's hard to secure friends when your pockets are empty.
However, despite all this I remain optimistic for the future of our Cooperative because we have a few driven and truly inspirational individuals who are genuinely interested in the greater good of the community. As long as they are around I will be, committed to working hard to cement the Cooperatives foundation in the community with whatever I can contribute.
Until next time...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Pearl gives birth
A quick anecdote for you:
I came home around 7:00 PM a few nights ago, dropped all my things and immediately started preparing dinner, as that was my only priority at that point in the night. A friend stopped by, we chatted while i was cooking - really only focused on eating dinner and getting a few things done before heading to bed. After eating, i realized i had misplaced my phone. I searched the house inside and out looking for it, in every room and every pocket of the articles of clothing i had worn that day. Finally i thought to look under the sheets in my bed, as i sometimes unconsciously leave it there.
Upon lifting up the thick blanket on top of my bed, i found not my cellphone, but something far more interesting: my cat, Pearl..nursing two kittens, after apparently having given birth to them. Right there. On my bed. And under the covers, no less.
What´s funny is, i didn´t even know she was pregnant. She doesn´t leave the house (or so I thought) and there aren´t any outlets to the surrounding houses (which I´ll now have to revise thoroughly). Although i had noticed a little firmness in her belly, i thought she was just growing or maybe i needed to be a little less liberal with the cat food. She is only, after all about 10 months old in my best estimates.
So, still not having found my cell phone, i collected my thoughts, racing around my house wanting to call someone - anyone - who could tell me what to do, having never dealt with newborn animals before. As far as i knew, kittens came from the petshop, and were neatly produced there (which, i´ll argue, isn´t too far from the truth in the U.S.)
When i finally found my phone - ten minutes after frantically yelling ¨Oh my god, Pearl! You have babies!¨ - i called a friend, managing only to blurt out ¨I need help. Can you come over?¨ He obliged without asking questions, and once he got there i explained my predicament, delicately lifting up the covers to reveal the whole, well, birth situation on my bed and the small little rats, that were supposedly new born kittens, expecting the same response from him.
He looked at me, glanced back at the kittens, and started to laugh. It was one of those deep belly laughs that makes you feel extremely sheepish for having reacted in such a way. He reminded me, yet again, that most people here think I am incredibly naive and oblivious to natural processes. When i told my boyfriend about it, he echoed my friend`s reaction. ¨That sort of thing is normal for us. Dogs have puppies, cats have kittens. That´s how it works.¨ Well, thanks for the biology lesson, appreciate that.
I think the fact that i found her hidden under my covers, in the remains of the birth, was what really struck me and sent me into that rare panic mode. For them, it was just another natural, everyday occurrence, whereas for me, it was something i´ve only seen channel surfing on TV - on select cable channels at that. Jeez.
The kittens are currently tucked neatly into a wide, plastic bucket filled with blankets and they´ve been providing constant entertainment for the past few days. Pearl immediately assumed the protective motherly disposition, which is heart warming, i must say. They still look little mice with cat-like features and colored coats, another stage i had never fully recognized as part of the life cycle of kittens. Once they get a little cuter, I´ll start contemplating names i suppose.
As for my sheets, I think they´re going to need a little bit more personal attention.
Until next time!
I came home around 7:00 PM a few nights ago, dropped all my things and immediately started preparing dinner, as that was my only priority at that point in the night. A friend stopped by, we chatted while i was cooking - really only focused on eating dinner and getting a few things done before heading to bed. After eating, i realized i had misplaced my phone. I searched the house inside and out looking for it, in every room and every pocket of the articles of clothing i had worn that day. Finally i thought to look under the sheets in my bed, as i sometimes unconsciously leave it there.
Upon lifting up the thick blanket on top of my bed, i found not my cellphone, but something far more interesting: my cat, Pearl..nursing two kittens, after apparently having given birth to them. Right there. On my bed. And under the covers, no less.
What´s funny is, i didn´t even know she was pregnant. She doesn´t leave the house (or so I thought) and there aren´t any outlets to the surrounding houses (which I´ll now have to revise thoroughly). Although i had noticed a little firmness in her belly, i thought she was just growing or maybe i needed to be a little less liberal with the cat food. She is only, after all about 10 months old in my best estimates.
So, still not having found my cell phone, i collected my thoughts, racing around my house wanting to call someone - anyone - who could tell me what to do, having never dealt with newborn animals before. As far as i knew, kittens came from the petshop, and were neatly produced there (which, i´ll argue, isn´t too far from the truth in the U.S.)
When i finally found my phone - ten minutes after frantically yelling ¨Oh my god, Pearl! You have babies!¨ - i called a friend, managing only to blurt out ¨I need help. Can you come over?¨ He obliged without asking questions, and once he got there i explained my predicament, delicately lifting up the covers to reveal the whole, well, birth situation on my bed and the small little rats, that were supposedly new born kittens, expecting the same response from him.
He looked at me, glanced back at the kittens, and started to laugh. It was one of those deep belly laughs that makes you feel extremely sheepish for having reacted in such a way. He reminded me, yet again, that most people here think I am incredibly naive and oblivious to natural processes. When i told my boyfriend about it, he echoed my friend`s reaction. ¨That sort of thing is normal for us. Dogs have puppies, cats have kittens. That´s how it works.¨ Well, thanks for the biology lesson, appreciate that.
I think the fact that i found her hidden under my covers, in the remains of the birth, was what really struck me and sent me into that rare panic mode. For them, it was just another natural, everyday occurrence, whereas for me, it was something i´ve only seen channel surfing on TV - on select cable channels at that. Jeez.
The kittens are currently tucked neatly into a wide, plastic bucket filled with blankets and they´ve been providing constant entertainment for the past few days. Pearl immediately assumed the protective motherly disposition, which is heart warming, i must say. They still look little mice with cat-like features and colored coats, another stage i had never fully recognized as part of the life cycle of kittens. Once they get a little cuter, I´ll start contemplating names i suppose.
As for my sheets, I think they´re going to need a little bit more personal attention.
Until next time!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Adventures in Guatemalan Running
Since bowing out of organized sports voluntarily I've learned to appreciate the activity that was once its punishment: running. Ironic, i know. But, I genuinely enjoy it now, whether it be to get in a solid workout, clear my head or even kill some time on a dull afternoon. Soon after picking up running, I dove rather haphazardly into marathons, having done two since I began. So, having embarked on my newest marathon plan - which will culminate on August 9th, at the Panama City International Marathon - I've been trying to repeat the methodology i've used in the past to achieve the same success I saw in the first two. And let me clarify "success" - crossing the finish line in one piece.
Considering my vastly different location and cultural situation, I've been dealing with a few minor limitations that i hadn't encountered before in my running and which I've found to be a little trying at times. Here's a few situations to give you an idea:
I would normally sport comfortable, high cut running shorts that, yes, may bear a little more thigh than what would be considered tasteful. But, considering that women in my town cover themselves up to the ankles and rarely even wear pants, let alone shorts, I'd say those shorts are basically out of the question. But it's ok, i have other options. (Instead, I've been using a pair of running tights that make my sister cringe when she sees me wearing them, i guess they leave very little to the imagination)
I'm used to running on pavement, but there's not much of that to be had around these parts. In town the streets are made of pavers and the only pavement is on the lone road leading out of town. After one reaches a point about four blocks away from the center of town, the pavers give way to dirt interspersed with a hodgepodge of stones. When I do my weekly long runs, I opt for the road out of town if I can find a running partner. But braving the dirt roads isn't so bad.
In the past I always did my long runs (more than 9 miles) darting around pedestrians on city blocks and along the Schuykill river of Philadelphia, gorgeous paths that are almost devoid of hills and definitely one of my favorite things about the entire city. While in my hometown in Guatemala there is no lack of scenery, there is no road to be found that does not consist entirely of rolling hills. For a shorter run, it wouldn't be such a bug deal, but for 15 miles let's say, hills get old really quick. From time to time, when chugging up these many gruesome hills, I wonder about who's responsible for the city planning around these parts..
Regardless of the location in the past I've always had a secluded track, or at least Gmaps pedometer - which measures distance traveled via satellite - at my disposal to do measured distances or timed laps. Since Google hasn't made it down to Guatemala to map out streets yet, I've had to eyeball distances and brave the observers on the streets with their shouts and strange looks. And who can blame them, honestly? I would be nervous about some strange foreigner running by my secluded house on a dirt road too. Although, this hasn't been so bad. Today when I did 400 meter repeats just outside town on a rare flat patch of the dirt road, i accrued a small crowd of kids who took turns racing me. I didn't have time or the extra breath to explain why i was doing exactly what i was doing while i was running, so instead i played along. The seven or eight kids tired quickly after i welcomed them to join me, but next week i expect stiffer competition. They're expecting me and I know their names now.
I'm also used to the luxury of running whenever the mood strikes. That is no longer a possibility with the rainy season. Soon, if i don't drag myself out of bed shortly after dawn to get my run in, it's just not going to happen that day. It's going to begin to rain for the majority of the day in a few short weeks and won't let up until November, when it will give way to a few months of chilly weather. Unfortunate, yes. Impossible? I don't think so.
With these minor obstacles to my training plan its been basically a question of toughing it out in more adverse conditions and being sensitive to cultural norms, just like most of the lessons I've collected thus far. While it definitely makes it more challenging, it also makes it more exciting, again, something that characterizes my life down here. When I leave the house for a run, I never know who's going to challenge me to a race, strike up a conversation or shout new terms of endearment. I could get home soaked, having been caught in a sudden downpour or dead tired because of miscalculating mileage or underestimating a new trail. Every day is different, in more ways than one. But the diversity is refreshing and the possibilities are limitless.
Until next time..
Considering my vastly different location and cultural situation, I've been dealing with a few minor limitations that i hadn't encountered before in my running and which I've found to be a little trying at times. Here's a few situations to give you an idea:
I would normally sport comfortable, high cut running shorts that, yes, may bear a little more thigh than what would be considered tasteful. But, considering that women in my town cover themselves up to the ankles and rarely even wear pants, let alone shorts, I'd say those shorts are basically out of the question. But it's ok, i have other options. (Instead, I've been using a pair of running tights that make my sister cringe when she sees me wearing them, i guess they leave very little to the imagination)
I'm used to running on pavement, but there's not much of that to be had around these parts. In town the streets are made of pavers and the only pavement is on the lone road leading out of town. After one reaches a point about four blocks away from the center of town, the pavers give way to dirt interspersed with a hodgepodge of stones. When I do my weekly long runs, I opt for the road out of town if I can find a running partner. But braving the dirt roads isn't so bad.
In the past I always did my long runs (more than 9 miles) darting around pedestrians on city blocks and along the Schuykill river of Philadelphia, gorgeous paths that are almost devoid of hills and definitely one of my favorite things about the entire city. While in my hometown in Guatemala there is no lack of scenery, there is no road to be found that does not consist entirely of rolling hills. For a shorter run, it wouldn't be such a bug deal, but for 15 miles let's say, hills get old really quick. From time to time, when chugging up these many gruesome hills, I wonder about who's responsible for the city planning around these parts..
Regardless of the location in the past I've always had a secluded track, or at least Gmaps pedometer - which measures distance traveled via satellite - at my disposal to do measured distances or timed laps. Since Google hasn't made it down to Guatemala to map out streets yet, I've had to eyeball distances and brave the observers on the streets with their shouts and strange looks. And who can blame them, honestly? I would be nervous about some strange foreigner running by my secluded house on a dirt road too. Although, this hasn't been so bad. Today when I did 400 meter repeats just outside town on a rare flat patch of the dirt road, i accrued a small crowd of kids who took turns racing me. I didn't have time or the extra breath to explain why i was doing exactly what i was doing while i was running, so instead i played along. The seven or eight kids tired quickly after i welcomed them to join me, but next week i expect stiffer competition. They're expecting me and I know their names now.
I'm also used to the luxury of running whenever the mood strikes. That is no longer a possibility with the rainy season. Soon, if i don't drag myself out of bed shortly after dawn to get my run in, it's just not going to happen that day. It's going to begin to rain for the majority of the day in a few short weeks and won't let up until November, when it will give way to a few months of chilly weather. Unfortunate, yes. Impossible? I don't think so.
With these minor obstacles to my training plan its been basically a question of toughing it out in more adverse conditions and being sensitive to cultural norms, just like most of the lessons I've collected thus far. While it definitely makes it more challenging, it also makes it more exciting, again, something that characterizes my life down here. When I leave the house for a run, I never know who's going to challenge me to a race, strike up a conversation or shout new terms of endearment. I could get home soaked, having been caught in a sudden downpour or dead tired because of miscalculating mileage or underestimating a new trail. Every day is different, in more ways than one. But the diversity is refreshing and the possibilities are limitless.
Until next time..
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Melissa Does Guatemala
Several weeks ago, I was lucky enough to have the company of my sister for a few days. Since it was like pulling teeth to get my parents to agree to send her over her spring break from the University of North Dakota, I was hell-bent on showing them that not only was it safe and crime free for the savvy, low-budget travelers like myself but that the hospitality of Guatemalans is bountiful, even overwhelming at times. Of course, this is the truth but i was set on driving home my point in the ongoing, uphill battle to reverse the reputation Guatemala's earned up there.
So, in my quest to show my sister a fun yet, safe time, I planned to pick her up from the airport and take her to Antigua, the crown jewel of the tourist industry in Guatemala for a fail-safe first impression. A quick side note though; at the airport meeting point about twenty minutes after i expected her to walk out the customs exit, i could not neglect my need to use the restroom any longer, so i left my boyfriend to watch out for her. I left him with a brief description and rushed off to the bathroom, hoping not to miss her. Due to a long line, and typical airport restroom inefficiency, i was alerted to her arrival while still standing in the restroom, by her loud squeal as she approached me from behind. It turns out she walked out of the customs door, looking confused and fitting the description i left with Gerson, so he appraoched her asking if she was Melissa. She apparently sighed in relief saying only, "Yes that's me! Oh thank god, English!"
Anyway, we left the airport, quickly catching up and making various stops to try local cuisine, ending up in Antigua where we went out for a leisurely dinner and out dancing afterward. The following morning we embarked on the adventure that arriving in my site entails, switching buses three times. The look she gave me as we boarded the first chicken bus was priceless, as if to say, "Ok, good joke. Where's the car we're really taking?" She quickly realized that i was not kidding, and that we were in fact going to ride that bus, not only packed full with women attempting to sit on our laps most of the way, but for three hours of it. I never said i was going to pamper her, and plus, that was authentic.
Once we arrived in sight - much to Melissa's relief - we headed to my house and met up with some friends in town, spending the rest of her time seeing the sights and enjoying the precursor activities to my town's Feria - or town celebration of its Patron Saint. One of these events was the Reina Indigena - or Indigenous Queen competition, where the indigenous young women in town compete to be deemed most worth of representing the town for all the Kaqchikel ethnicity. I would call it a PG pageant that involves more cultural activities and less skin. Melissa quickly took a liking to Arroz con Leche and Chuchitos (two mainstays in my area) thus winning lots of points with the locals and even several invitations to return. Some of my friends actually insisted that she come back, because she had such a short stay.
On her last day we made a day trip to Lake Atitlan, doing some light shopping and basically just enjoying the sights. Overall, it was wonderful to have her here and to be able to share a little slice of my life with someone with whom I'm very close. Many times I find it difficult to relay details and share experiences with people from home because of the lack of context and/or cultural understanding, and having her here was great for both of us. Although, I did have to politely ask her to avoid using facebook so many times a day. I suppose i can't expect her to change overnight :)
Until next time...
So, in my quest to show my sister a fun yet, safe time, I planned to pick her up from the airport and take her to Antigua, the crown jewel of the tourist industry in Guatemala for a fail-safe first impression. A quick side note though; at the airport meeting point about twenty minutes after i expected her to walk out the customs exit, i could not neglect my need to use the restroom any longer, so i left my boyfriend to watch out for her. I left him with a brief description and rushed off to the bathroom, hoping not to miss her. Due to a long line, and typical airport restroom inefficiency, i was alerted to her arrival while still standing in the restroom, by her loud squeal as she approached me from behind. It turns out she walked out of the customs door, looking confused and fitting the description i left with Gerson, so he appraoched her asking if she was Melissa. She apparently sighed in relief saying only, "Yes that's me! Oh thank god, English!"
Anyway, we left the airport, quickly catching up and making various stops to try local cuisine, ending up in Antigua where we went out for a leisurely dinner and out dancing afterward. The following morning we embarked on the adventure that arriving in my site entails, switching buses three times. The look she gave me as we boarded the first chicken bus was priceless, as if to say, "Ok, good joke. Where's the car we're really taking?" She quickly realized that i was not kidding, and that we were in fact going to ride that bus, not only packed full with women attempting to sit on our laps most of the way, but for three hours of it. I never said i was going to pamper her, and plus, that was authentic.
Once we arrived in sight - much to Melissa's relief - we headed to my house and met up with some friends in town, spending the rest of her time seeing the sights and enjoying the precursor activities to my town's Feria - or town celebration of its Patron Saint. One of these events was the Reina Indigena - or Indigenous Queen competition, where the indigenous young women in town compete to be deemed most worth of representing the town for all the Kaqchikel ethnicity. I would call it a PG pageant that involves more cultural activities and less skin. Melissa quickly took a liking to Arroz con Leche and Chuchitos (two mainstays in my area) thus winning lots of points with the locals and even several invitations to return. Some of my friends actually insisted that she come back, because she had such a short stay.
On her last day we made a day trip to Lake Atitlan, doing some light shopping and basically just enjoying the sights. Overall, it was wonderful to have her here and to be able to share a little slice of my life with someone with whom I'm very close. Many times I find it difficult to relay details and share experiences with people from home because of the lack of context and/or cultural understanding, and having her here was great for both of us. Although, I did have to politely ask her to avoid using facebook so many times a day. I suppose i can't expect her to change overnight :)
Until next time...
Friday, March 20, 2009
Pizza with the Morales family
A few weeks ago, I had a day off from work after having had a training canceled. Looking for an activity for the day, I offered to help a friend of mine - Ruben - bake bread for his family's store; something he oversees everyday, managing the business and taking on the bakers role when he doesn't have class in the capital. Having fresh bread every day is one of the luxuries I enjoy here, and it's tradition for most Guatemalans in my town to have bread with coffee before dinner every night. One person told me she simply cannot eat unless she's had her sweet bread and coffee (also VERY sweet).
On that day he was planning to do it alone, so i gladly offered to help, not quite realizing what i was getting myself into. As you can see below, making bread for a store involves large quantities, not to mention muscle. Huge masses of dough with varying proportions of sugar, flour, yeast, lard, baking powder were not exactly what i had imagined upon offering to help. I imagined myself in a quaint apron, with a few strategically placed flour smears on my face smiling as I extracted perfectly browned loaves of bread from the oven, warranting a pat on the back from Ruben. This, as you can imagine, was not the case.
We started by determining how many pieces of sweet bread (Pan Dulce in Spanish, note: in no way related to the sweet bread made famous by Hannibal Lector) how many pieces of Tostado (similar to cookies), how many cubiletes (bread cupcakes, my favorite) and how many loaves of french bread. Ruben started by mixing the ingredients in what looked like a feeding trough and slapping the well mixed mass onto the bread table. He estimated that it weighed 75 pounds (I let him handle that). We kneaded each set of dough for about 15 minutes, and formed the dough into the various shapes and molds that Ruben had established as part of the bakery's daily repertoire. They were remarkably similar, just varied in certain techniques that he had researched when he decided to start the bread business. I got a little frustrated rolling consistent sized dough balls and perfectly swizzling the pretzel shaped cookies he had invented - but i did master the croissant technique and the art of the anise bread. All in all it was a great learning experience, and a hard day's work. We used a total of 125 pounds of flour throughout the different mixtures, ending up with a total of 900 pieces of bread, cookies, cubiletes and loaves of french bread.
The best part of the whole day was once we finished baking - enjoying a few pieces along the way - we were able to take advantage of the already fired-up brick oven to make homemade pizza. Pizza has become something of a tradition with Ruben's family, and we've recruited most of his siblings, nieces and nephews and even his mom to eat with us on occasion. Everyone likes to help around the preparation table to be able to enjoy the pizza when it comes out perfectly baked from the brick oven. One of the most special things about the oven they use is that their father had it built over 30 years ago in that part of the house for use in making bread, but it´s one of the few brick ovens that remain in the town. People around the neighborhood know that they continue to bake with that method and prefer the bread they bake, if not for the taste then simply for the tradition. I have friends who make a point to come over when we make plans to bake pizza in the brick oven; it's a tradition we can really get behind :)
Until next time!
On that day he was planning to do it alone, so i gladly offered to help, not quite realizing what i was getting myself into. As you can see below, making bread for a store involves large quantities, not to mention muscle. Huge masses of dough with varying proportions of sugar, flour, yeast, lard, baking powder were not exactly what i had imagined upon offering to help. I imagined myself in a quaint apron, with a few strategically placed flour smears on my face smiling as I extracted perfectly browned loaves of bread from the oven, warranting a pat on the back from Ruben. This, as you can imagine, was not the case.
We started by determining how many pieces of sweet bread (Pan Dulce in Spanish, note: in no way related to the sweet bread made famous by Hannibal Lector) how many pieces of Tostado (similar to cookies), how many cubiletes (bread cupcakes, my favorite) and how many loaves of french bread. Ruben started by mixing the ingredients in what looked like a feeding trough and slapping the well mixed mass onto the bread table. He estimated that it weighed 75 pounds (I let him handle that). We kneaded each set of dough for about 15 minutes, and formed the dough into the various shapes and molds that Ruben had established as part of the bakery's daily repertoire. They were remarkably similar, just varied in certain techniques that he had researched when he decided to start the bread business. I got a little frustrated rolling consistent sized dough balls and perfectly swizzling the pretzel shaped cookies he had invented - but i did master the croissant technique and the art of the anise bread. All in all it was a great learning experience, and a hard day's work. We used a total of 125 pounds of flour throughout the different mixtures, ending up with a total of 900 pieces of bread, cookies, cubiletes and loaves of french bread.
The best part of the whole day was once we finished baking - enjoying a few pieces along the way - we were able to take advantage of the already fired-up brick oven to make homemade pizza. Pizza has become something of a tradition with Ruben's family, and we've recruited most of his siblings, nieces and nephews and even his mom to eat with us on occasion. Everyone likes to help around the preparation table to be able to enjoy the pizza when it comes out perfectly baked from the brick oven. One of the most special things about the oven they use is that their father had it built over 30 years ago in that part of the house for use in making bread, but it´s one of the few brick ovens that remain in the town. People around the neighborhood know that they continue to bake with that method and prefer the bread they bake, if not for the taste then simply for the tradition. I have friends who make a point to come over when we make plans to bake pizza in the brick oven; it's a tradition we can really get behind :)
Until next time!
Friday, March 6, 2009
Valentine's Day
Well, having spent my first Valentine's Day in Guatemala, I was a little disappointed at finding very little reference to relationships, which I had gotten pretty used to in the states. I think I was one of the few single girls who didn’t have a dangerous love-hate relationship or bipolar tendencies with the holiday. (Unlike an acquaintance - who will remain unnamed - who when I asked about her Valentine’s Day plans without a boyfriend for the first time in a while, informed me very matter of fact-ly that she intended to eat a whole roll of cookie dough). But having gotten accustomed to the ostentatious displays of flowers, gigantic boxes of chocolate and risqué lingerie sales, I found Valentine’s Day in Guatemala pretty bare-bones. I'd even heard Valentines Day in Guatemala referred to as "The Day of Friendship" which is basically the opposite of its meaning in the states – unless you plan to seduce and shower your friends with unnecessary presents. But, regardless - I found a way to celebrate American style with friends from around the country, at a small get together at my house. And by small, I mean a conservative 17 people :)
But, in all seriousness, on the topic of Valentines Day, I wanted to bring up something I’ve noticed over the past few months in my quaint little town, which is a disheartening lack of affection between married couples. (Although, I can report no lack of affection between younger couples) At first I noticed it between my host parents, and thinking it might be something unique to them I waited and continued to observe other families around town, even in other villages. Having observed for several months now, as far as I can tell husbands and wives do not address each other with terms of endearment, kiss (let alone hug) or even really spend much time together. Believing very strongly in the institution of marriage, and having grown up around affectionate, loving couples (which is not to say perfect) to be honest, this made me a little sad.
Now, be warned, this could be an unfair generalization; I’m speaking only from my own experience in a short few months. The only reference I had was the husbands and wives with whom I’d grown up. But identifying the difference between the couples there and the couples whom I’d come to know in Guatemala, I felt the tiniest hint of pride in the US – something that I don’t experience very frequently here, unfortunately. Despite all the problems that exist in the states, and there are a lot – not to mention the high divorce rate – at least we had some couples who were happily married, who had mastered the art of coexisting with another and the ability to be faithful to and care for their spouse. This, however little it may be, was something to be proud of and something that on a deeper level reminded me of the underlying good in Americans. I realize that not all couples in the States are particularly affectionate either – not by a long shot. But I always like to see married couples holding hands, or showing some sort of small signs of affection that discreetly whisper to onlookers that even after years of being together, their little flame still burns. Small observances like that always reassure my faith in the institution of marriage and the possibility of finding that one person for whom you were meant – your other half, we could say. Maybe this is naïve and idealistic, but so be it.
Thinking about this often, reflecting on what it could mean about the state of marriages in Guatemala, one day I worked up the audacity to ask someone about it. I mentioned it to two friends, without citing specific examples (afraid to offend anyone) and asked why that was the case. I was relieved to find that neither seemed offended. On the contrary – they both confirmed my observation. They pointed out to me that many people in the towns I frequented, and partners in the marriages I had been observing had suffered greatly during the internal conflict in Guatemala - which ended in 1996 - and thus were probably very hesitant to show affection or be open at all with their feelings. They had learned through decades of hiding and secrecy that it was at times unnecessary and even unsafe to display affection - or show any emotion for that matter - in public. I hadn't thought about it before, but I guess it makes sense, keeping in mind recent factors and the current context. But, my two friends also brought to my attention that many husbands and wives may have other ways of showing affection that I might not immediately notice, not being from here; bearing and raising children, cooking, cleaning, earning money for the family are all ways, they reminded me, to demonstrate your love for the other person.
I am happy to report that of those things, there is no noticeable lack. In fact, I'd even go as far as saying that if that's the case, there is an excess of love between married couples in my town.
I should have recognized the subtlety in this before, having heard the Spanish equivalent of one’s “other half.” They call that person your "media naranja," or the other half of the orange. Well, I guess if I were to meet my other half (of the orange that is) in Guatemala, he might expect these things from me (and, heaven forbid, tortillas). But I'll have to break it to him that I plan to express myself the old fashioned way: Good old tender loving care.
Until next time...
But, in all seriousness, on the topic of Valentines Day, I wanted to bring up something I’ve noticed over the past few months in my quaint little town, which is a disheartening lack of affection between married couples. (Although, I can report no lack of affection between younger couples) At first I noticed it between my host parents, and thinking it might be something unique to them I waited and continued to observe other families around town, even in other villages. Having observed for several months now, as far as I can tell husbands and wives do not address each other with terms of endearment, kiss (let alone hug) or even really spend much time together. Believing very strongly in the institution of marriage, and having grown up around affectionate, loving couples (which is not to say perfect) to be honest, this made me a little sad.
Now, be warned, this could be an unfair generalization; I’m speaking only from my own experience in a short few months. The only reference I had was the husbands and wives with whom I’d grown up. But identifying the difference between the couples there and the couples whom I’d come to know in Guatemala, I felt the tiniest hint of pride in the US – something that I don’t experience very frequently here, unfortunately. Despite all the problems that exist in the states, and there are a lot – not to mention the high divorce rate – at least we had some couples who were happily married, who had mastered the art of coexisting with another and the ability to be faithful to and care for their spouse. This, however little it may be, was something to be proud of and something that on a deeper level reminded me of the underlying good in Americans. I realize that not all couples in the States are particularly affectionate either – not by a long shot. But I always like to see married couples holding hands, or showing some sort of small signs of affection that discreetly whisper to onlookers that even after years of being together, their little flame still burns. Small observances like that always reassure my faith in the institution of marriage and the possibility of finding that one person for whom you were meant – your other half, we could say. Maybe this is naïve and idealistic, but so be it.
Thinking about this often, reflecting on what it could mean about the state of marriages in Guatemala, one day I worked up the audacity to ask someone about it. I mentioned it to two friends, without citing specific examples (afraid to offend anyone) and asked why that was the case. I was relieved to find that neither seemed offended. On the contrary – they both confirmed my observation. They pointed out to me that many people in the towns I frequented, and partners in the marriages I had been observing had suffered greatly during the internal conflict in Guatemala - which ended in 1996 - and thus were probably very hesitant to show affection or be open at all with their feelings. They had learned through decades of hiding and secrecy that it was at times unnecessary and even unsafe to display affection - or show any emotion for that matter - in public. I hadn't thought about it before, but I guess it makes sense, keeping in mind recent factors and the current context. But, my two friends also brought to my attention that many husbands and wives may have other ways of showing affection that I might not immediately notice, not being from here; bearing and raising children, cooking, cleaning, earning money for the family are all ways, they reminded me, to demonstrate your love for the other person.
I am happy to report that of those things, there is no noticeable lack. In fact, I'd even go as far as saying that if that's the case, there is an excess of love between married couples in my town.
I should have recognized the subtlety in this before, having heard the Spanish equivalent of one’s “other half.” They call that person your "media naranja," or the other half of the orange. Well, I guess if I were to meet my other half (of the orange that is) in Guatemala, he might expect these things from me (and, heaven forbid, tortillas). But I'll have to break it to him that I plan to express myself the old fashioned way: Good old tender loving care.
Until next time...
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Chiming in..
Today marks the first time in which I successfully inserted myself into a Kaqchikel conversation – without being invited of course, but that is clearly beside the point. While my contribution was minute and probably inaudible to the untrained ear, my point was received! I purchased a five gallon bottle of water to bring to my house (for drinking, because the water out of the faucet is non-drinkable for various reasons) and the senora at the store suggested to her husband, who was carrying it out to me, that he carry it all the way to my house, two doors down. I said coolly, “Naq, matyox,” or “No, thank you.” It elicited a little giggle from both the woman and her husband, but they understood and even had the courtesy to suggest that I actually spoke Kaqchikel. A momentous occasion indeed. You’ll notice that my sentence lacks verbs – if I’m lucky, my teacher will allow me to move on to the art of conjugation in Kaqchikel, and it is worthy of being called an art, next week. For now, I have to use make shift sentences like the one above. Thirty five hours of class and no sentence structure in sight. Sigh.
Again I’ve been rather sporadic with my posts lately, but it’s not for lack of attention. I’ve realized that things have become so familiar and so - dare I say “normal?”- around here that I don’t immediately think of the value that some strange observance would add to my blog. Not many things are strange to me anymore, which I think can be taken as a sign of acclimation, or at least I hope that’s what it means. At lunch the other day, I commented to a friend that I fear the day that I find myself in some dress setting in the United States and suddenly look up to see mouths gaping at the sight of me happily eating with my hands and diligently dipping my spit-moist finger in the table salt. While lack of silverware is a somewhat regular occurrence in the villages, it’s never an inconvenience. There are always tortillas (seriously, always) and therefore silverware is an unnecessary obstacle to consuming a delicious meal – even soup. I no longer cringe when someone dares to sit dangerously close to in my lap on the bus while their child stares at me or falls asleep on my arm, it could be much worse. And I haven’t noticed a rooster’s crow in weeks.
As for work right now, I feel like I’ve got various responsibilities that keep me consistently busy, but never bored. With my Host Country Agency I’ve been dispatched to two villages to assess the situation in two different community organizations, one of which having just been established and the other of which that has fifteen years of experience of serving the community. With ODIKA, the first of the two, I’m in the process of incorporating a Food Security branch to their organization. This theme, which I consider extremely relevant considering the current food crisis in which we as a planet find ourselves at the moment, would establish a several year program implemented by ODIKA that would begin with home-nutrition and garden tending trainings and ultimately culminate in larger scale production, or commercial training. With ADECCA, the second of the two organizations, I’m in the process of assisting them to implement a community health project that would bring trained midwife and health promoters to twenty of the surrounding communities that lack access to health services right now. Unfortunately, implement is a very loose term - they have yet to acquire funding, and I suspect they’re secretly thinking that I’m their ticket into the carnival of generous NGO’s. To be honest, I think I know less then they do, keeping in mind their previous experience with development organizations and already established contacts. But I’m looking, and trying to make contacts, which is the best I can do at the moment. Of course, any suggestions would be welcome. And of course, there’s the ever-snowballing English classes. I have about 15 students now between Monday night, Tuesday/Thursday, and Saturday morning classes. But, at least it’s something tangible, in which I can measure progress. And for that, I am thankful.
Now, I’d like to offer you a quick Peace Corps Joke I’ve stolen from a friend. It rings dangerously true…
Three guys sit at a table staring at a glass of water.
The first one says to the other two, “Hey guys. I think that glass looks half empty.”
The second, more of an optimist, responds, “No way. It’s definitely half full.”
The third, a cheery Peace Corps Volunteer says. “Hey, I could bathe with that!”
Hope all is well! Until next time…
Again I’ve been rather sporadic with my posts lately, but it’s not for lack of attention. I’ve realized that things have become so familiar and so - dare I say “normal?”- around here that I don’t immediately think of the value that some strange observance would add to my blog. Not many things are strange to me anymore, which I think can be taken as a sign of acclimation, or at least I hope that’s what it means. At lunch the other day, I commented to a friend that I fear the day that I find myself in some dress setting in the United States and suddenly look up to see mouths gaping at the sight of me happily eating with my hands and diligently dipping my spit-moist finger in the table salt. While lack of silverware is a somewhat regular occurrence in the villages, it’s never an inconvenience. There are always tortillas (seriously, always) and therefore silverware is an unnecessary obstacle to consuming a delicious meal – even soup. I no longer cringe when someone dares to sit dangerously close to in my lap on the bus while their child stares at me or falls asleep on my arm, it could be much worse. And I haven’t noticed a rooster’s crow in weeks.
As for work right now, I feel like I’ve got various responsibilities that keep me consistently busy, but never bored. With my Host Country Agency I’ve been dispatched to two villages to assess the situation in two different community organizations, one of which having just been established and the other of which that has fifteen years of experience of serving the community. With ODIKA, the first of the two, I’m in the process of incorporating a Food Security branch to their organization. This theme, which I consider extremely relevant considering the current food crisis in which we as a planet find ourselves at the moment, would establish a several year program implemented by ODIKA that would begin with home-nutrition and garden tending trainings and ultimately culminate in larger scale production, or commercial training. With ADECCA, the second of the two organizations, I’m in the process of assisting them to implement a community health project that would bring trained midwife and health promoters to twenty of the surrounding communities that lack access to health services right now. Unfortunately, implement is a very loose term - they have yet to acquire funding, and I suspect they’re secretly thinking that I’m their ticket into the carnival of generous NGO’s. To be honest, I think I know less then they do, keeping in mind their previous experience with development organizations and already established contacts. But I’m looking, and trying to make contacts, which is the best I can do at the moment. Of course, any suggestions would be welcome. And of course, there’s the ever-snowballing English classes. I have about 15 students now between Monday night, Tuesday/Thursday, and Saturday morning classes. But, at least it’s something tangible, in which I can measure progress. And for that, I am thankful.
Now, I’d like to offer you a quick Peace Corps Joke I’ve stolen from a friend. It rings dangerously true…
Three guys sit at a table staring at a glass of water.
The first one says to the other two, “Hey guys. I think that glass looks half empty.”
The second, more of an optimist, responds, “No way. It’s definitely half full.”
The third, a cheery Peace Corps Volunteer says. “Hey, I could bathe with that!”
Hope all is well! Until next time…
Monday, January 26, 2009
Looking for things to do..
In the last few weeks, I’ve been dealing with a little bit of guilt at not having accomplished much so far. I feel like having been in site for almost three months now, I should have seen more progress in the work area, but I consistently come up disappointed. Adhering to Peace Corps rules, I’ve had to rearrange the structure of my work, mainly for not being allowed to ride on a motorcycle for safety reasons. Luckily, my counterpart Marvin was very understanding, and helped me to find several other outlets for work within my site and the surrounding villages. I now have four commitments to which I’m promised; two community organizations in the villages surrounding my site, a women’s group looking to commercialize in site and the co-op of the local coffee producers that’s just getting off the ground. Unfortunately I find myself planning more than actually doing. Hopefully that will soon change.
In the meantime, in order to cope with that guilt, I’ve started to engage in more tangible activities, like giving English class and receiving more Kaqchikel class. As of right now I have two consistent English students and will soon start to give weekly classes to a group of interested students at the school where my Kaqchikel teacher gives classes. While I’m excited to begin actually giving back, after having received so much in terms of cultural learning and language practice, I’m nervous to begin teaching something in which I can’t call myself an expert. If I’ve learned one thing about languages while being here, it’s that speaking a language from birth does not necessarily qualify you to teach it. If anything, it’s completely the opposite. With the seldom opportunity to speak English lately, I’ve been more observant of my own grammar in speech and I have to say, my high school teachers would be ashamed.
With that on the horizon, I’ve begun to plan a basic curriculum along with small activities I can conduct in class to help the students. With the two willing subjects I have right now I began by saying, “look, I know what it’s like to think you sound funny when you speak another language, but it’s part of learning that language” because I most certainly do. For the first 20 hours of Kaqchikel class I could not pronounce certain words that end in ‘l’ because when I heard myself making that specific sound, I sounded like I had a serious speech impediment. I’m just now getting over it, much to the relief of my teacher.
Hopefully work will pick up soon. I’m having daydreams that one day someone will knock on my door and say, “Come now, I have a project that will consume 8 hours a day of every work week until November 2010. It’s urgent, and we need your help!” But I’ve started to realize that the chances of that happening are about as high as me making the Guatemalan Soccer team. I’m going to continue finding my own work and identifying needs on my own in the meantime, and in the offchance that someone actually does come to me with that urgent need, I’ll always have the weekends :)
Until next time…
In the meantime, in order to cope with that guilt, I’ve started to engage in more tangible activities, like giving English class and receiving more Kaqchikel class. As of right now I have two consistent English students and will soon start to give weekly classes to a group of interested students at the school where my Kaqchikel teacher gives classes. While I’m excited to begin actually giving back, after having received so much in terms of cultural learning and language practice, I’m nervous to begin teaching something in which I can’t call myself an expert. If I’ve learned one thing about languages while being here, it’s that speaking a language from birth does not necessarily qualify you to teach it. If anything, it’s completely the opposite. With the seldom opportunity to speak English lately, I’ve been more observant of my own grammar in speech and I have to say, my high school teachers would be ashamed.
With that on the horizon, I’ve begun to plan a basic curriculum along with small activities I can conduct in class to help the students. With the two willing subjects I have right now I began by saying, “look, I know what it’s like to think you sound funny when you speak another language, but it’s part of learning that language” because I most certainly do. For the first 20 hours of Kaqchikel class I could not pronounce certain words that end in ‘l’ because when I heard myself making that specific sound, I sounded like I had a serious speech impediment. I’m just now getting over it, much to the relief of my teacher.
Hopefully work will pick up soon. I’m having daydreams that one day someone will knock on my door and say, “Come now, I have a project that will consume 8 hours a day of every work week until November 2010. It’s urgent, and we need your help!” But I’ve started to realize that the chances of that happening are about as high as me making the Guatemalan Soccer team. I’m going to continue finding my own work and identifying needs on my own in the meantime, and in the offchance that someone actually does come to me with that urgent need, I’ll always have the weekends :)
Until next time…
Monday, January 19, 2009
Nebaj and the Cheese Hike
This past weekend I had the chance to visit a few friends in Nebaj, a city in the department of El Quiche, made famous by 1992 Nobel Peace Prize winner Rigoberta Menchu and her work during the war. Before leaving I was little apprehensive about what kind of a reception we would get there, having heard rumors of people in the area strongly disliking Americans after such tumultuous times during the internal conflict. Located in the middle of an area many still refer to by its military name – the Ixil triangle - the municipality of Nebaj was hit very hard by the war and hard feelings still remain. Although I haven’t substantiated this rumor, nor have I heard of it happening to any of my acquaintances, I heard that it isn’t uncommon for children and/or adults to throw rocks and sticks at gringos in some areas around Nebaj.
The trip up there took about 5 hours from my site, but I met up with another volunteer on the way, so luckily I didn’t have to do it alone. We caught a bus to get to the capital city of the department, Santa Cruz del Quiche, but as soon as we boarded, we wished we had waited. Not only was every seat full – 3 people deep, with people crowding 75% of the aisles as well – but vendors were boarding the bus as we stalled at the bus stop for about 5 minutes, offering food, drinks and snacks, knowing that the bus had come from the capital and the people aboard were a captive market for such things. Standing in the aisle while a bigger lady trying to sell Chuchitos (Milled corn with tomato sauce steamed in a corn leaf) from an oversized basket attempted and eventually succeeded to squeeze through, my friend Kate and I looked at each other with the familiar, “Oh, Guatemala” expression that has come to represent resignation to some of the quirks of the culture down here.
After standing for two hours as the bus spun around tight curves and steep ascents and declines, we finally got to sit down about half an hour outside of Santa Cruz del Quiche, but we quickly got off and boarded a Microbus for Nebaj, which was still another 2 hours away via foggy mountain roads. Luckily we made a stop for gas along the way, during which vendors raced up to the microbus to peddle their various offerings through the windows. Kate and I broke down and indulged in a bag of neon colored popcorn balls, which I won’t admit to liking. Once we arrived, we met up with a friend whose site is Nebaj and went out to dinner at an ex-pat’s restaurant.
The following day we set out early to hike to a nearby village that boasts a cheese farm with some of the best cheese in Guatemala. Obviously, this was one of my main reasons for wanting to visit Nebaj – the chance to taste some fresh, well made cheese. After the two and a half hour hike through mud and spitting rain, we arrived at the cheese farm and sat down to enjoy gourmet grilled cheese and coffee – complete with fresh cream that was rich enough to eat by itself. We ate overlooking the pastures of the farm, and found ourselves constantly wondering how we had stumbled upon this strange oasis in the middle of the most war- torn region of Guatemala.
After lunch at the cheese farm we caught a ride back to Nebaj proper in a pickup truck and met up with more friends later that night. We ended up eating almost every meal at the same restaurant, mainly because he had fresh pickles (which I hadn’t had since before I left the states), peanut butter and a mean apple pie.
Although the weather was cold and miserable, it was nice to see a different part of the country and see another site. I hope to go back soon, if not to see my friends again that for the cheese alone. I bought some to take home, but as you can imagine, that didn’t last me very long.
Until next time..
The trip up there took about 5 hours from my site, but I met up with another volunteer on the way, so luckily I didn’t have to do it alone. We caught a bus to get to the capital city of the department, Santa Cruz del Quiche, but as soon as we boarded, we wished we had waited. Not only was every seat full – 3 people deep, with people crowding 75% of the aisles as well – but vendors were boarding the bus as we stalled at the bus stop for about 5 minutes, offering food, drinks and snacks, knowing that the bus had come from the capital and the people aboard were a captive market for such things. Standing in the aisle while a bigger lady trying to sell Chuchitos (Milled corn with tomato sauce steamed in a corn leaf) from an oversized basket attempted and eventually succeeded to squeeze through, my friend Kate and I looked at each other with the familiar, “Oh, Guatemala” expression that has come to represent resignation to some of the quirks of the culture down here.
After standing for two hours as the bus spun around tight curves and steep ascents and declines, we finally got to sit down about half an hour outside of Santa Cruz del Quiche, but we quickly got off and boarded a Microbus for Nebaj, which was still another 2 hours away via foggy mountain roads. Luckily we made a stop for gas along the way, during which vendors raced up to the microbus to peddle their various offerings through the windows. Kate and I broke down and indulged in a bag of neon colored popcorn balls, which I won’t admit to liking. Once we arrived, we met up with a friend whose site is Nebaj and went out to dinner at an ex-pat’s restaurant.
The following day we set out early to hike to a nearby village that boasts a cheese farm with some of the best cheese in Guatemala. Obviously, this was one of my main reasons for wanting to visit Nebaj – the chance to taste some fresh, well made cheese. After the two and a half hour hike through mud and spitting rain, we arrived at the cheese farm and sat down to enjoy gourmet grilled cheese and coffee – complete with fresh cream that was rich enough to eat by itself. We ate overlooking the pastures of the farm, and found ourselves constantly wondering how we had stumbled upon this strange oasis in the middle of the most war- torn region of Guatemala.
After lunch at the cheese farm we caught a ride back to Nebaj proper in a pickup truck and met up with more friends later that night. We ended up eating almost every meal at the same restaurant, mainly because he had fresh pickles (which I hadn’t had since before I left the states), peanut butter and a mean apple pie.
Although the weather was cold and miserable, it was nice to see a different part of the country and see another site. I hope to go back soon, if not to see my friends again that for the cheese alone. I bought some to take home, but as you can imagine, that didn’t last me very long.
Until next time..
Monday, January 5, 2009
Christmas In Site
Yet another experience I acquired while religiously not writing: Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebrations in site.
I was fortunate enough to be invited to celebrate Christmas with the family in my site and that has graciously taken me under its wing. With two women in the family (mother and daughter) who have spent time abroad to study, we can easily relate.
So, having been invited, I headed over on Christmas Eve -¨Noche Buena¨ in Spanish- in the afternoon and found several women hard at work preparing the tamales for our dinner (and subsequent breakfast, lunch and dinner, again, to be exact). They had a sort of assmebly line working to get the job done - tamales are made from a varying amount of corn mash and milled rice, allotted a small piece of meat and tomato sauce ladled into a banana leaf and wrapped with small pieces of twine or plant fibers.
While it seems pretty simple to me, each family claims to have their own recipe, involving different proportions of rice and corn mash, tomato sauce and the secret ingredient: pig fat. Appetizing, I know - but I constantly have to remind myself that a lot of the stuff we love as Americans probably looks less-than-scrumptious to them as well. For example: when offered stuffing, two Guatemalan friends cringed, but graciously accepted a small spoonful. I don’t know about you, but stuffing is my favorite dish at holiday meals.
Two women in my host family worked for almost an entire day to prepare all the tamales. To cook them they’re piled into a huge pot and steamed over a wood fire for an hour or two – another component that makes each family’s tamales different;cooking time and method.
After praying and giving thanks for the joy and impending meal of Noche Buena, each person was handed a plate with the unwrapped tamales and a mug of the Guatemalan version of hot chocolate. Everyone ate between two and four tamales, accompanied by nothing more than bread, salt and hot sauce, while eagerly looking forward to the next meal of the same thing. I could only manage one.
Once we finished eating, we had a small gift exchange between the ten people who chose to participate. Everyone bought a gift worth around ten quetzals (about $1.30) and gave it to their designated recipient. I bought a decorative basket for an aunt of the family and one of the siblings bought me a woven cloth that I’m now using to spruce up my kitchen table.
And, of course, there were plenty of fireworks. Speaking of which, I tried to spread a rumor with another American friend in a futile attempt to curb the noise in my area. Interpret this as you may, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The rumor goes like this: the famous reindeer that carry Santa Claus all over the world on Christmas eve are deathly afraid of fireworks. Therefore, if you light fireworks, especially the loud kind, the reindeer won’t bring Santa Claus anywhere near your house.
As you can imagine, this rumor was unsuccessful. Seeing as Santa Claus is not a well known visitor in the area, kids only laughed when they heard it (see for yourself the smug expression on one of the cousins’ face as she lights a violent sparkler in the street).
My Kaqchikel teacher suggested that next year, to more effectively scare the kids away from fireworks, I should spread a rumor claiming that they interfere with the production of tamales on Christmas Eve…which would be much more frightening.
I was fortunate enough to be invited to celebrate Christmas with the family in my site and that has graciously taken me under its wing. With two women in the family (mother and daughter) who have spent time abroad to study, we can easily relate.
So, having been invited, I headed over on Christmas Eve -¨Noche Buena¨ in Spanish- in the afternoon and found several women hard at work preparing the tamales for our dinner (and subsequent breakfast, lunch and dinner, again, to be exact). They had a sort of assmebly line working to get the job done - tamales are made from a varying amount of corn mash and milled rice, allotted a small piece of meat and tomato sauce ladled into a banana leaf and wrapped with small pieces of twine or plant fibers.
While it seems pretty simple to me, each family claims to have their own recipe, involving different proportions of rice and corn mash, tomato sauce and the secret ingredient: pig fat. Appetizing, I know - but I constantly have to remind myself that a lot of the stuff we love as Americans probably looks less-than-scrumptious to them as well. For example: when offered stuffing, two Guatemalan friends cringed, but graciously accepted a small spoonful. I don’t know about you, but stuffing is my favorite dish at holiday meals. Two women in my host family worked for almost an entire day to prepare all the tamales. To cook them they’re piled into a huge pot and steamed over a wood fire for an hour or two – another component that makes each family’s tamales different;cooking time and method.
After praying and giving thanks for the joy and impending meal of Noche Buena, each person was handed a plate with the unwrapped tamales and a mug of the Guatemalan version of hot chocolate. Everyone ate between two and four tamales, accompanied by nothing more than bread, salt and hot sauce, while eagerly looking forward to the next meal of the same thing. I could only manage one.
Once we finished eating, we had a small gift exchange between the ten people who chose to participate. Everyone bought a gift worth around ten quetzals (about $1.30) and gave it to their designated recipient. I bought a decorative basket for an aunt of the family and one of the siblings bought me a woven cloth that I’m now using to spruce up my kitchen table.
And, of course, there were plenty of fireworks. Speaking of which, I tried to spread a rumor with another American friend in a futile attempt to curb the noise in my area. Interpret this as you may, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The rumor goes like this: the famous reindeer that carry Santa Claus all over the world on Christmas eve are deathly afraid of fireworks. Therefore, if you light fireworks, especially the loud kind, the reindeer won’t bring Santa Claus anywhere near your house.
As you can imagine, this rumor was unsuccessful. Seeing as Santa Claus is not a well known visitor in the area, kids only laughed when they heard it (see for yourself the smug expression on one of the cousins’ face as she lights a violent sparkler in the street).
My Kaqchikel teacher suggested that next year, to more effectively scare the kids away from fireworks, I should spread a rumor claiming that they interfere with the production of tamales on Christmas Eve…which would be much more frightening.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Coffee Trainings
So, having been traveling frequently the last few weeks for various holiday celebrations and visits, I haven’t had much time to write anything coherent to share with you, but on the bright side, I’ve had plenty of time to collect observations and experiences that you might find interesting.
I’ll start with the two huge coffee trainings we had scheduled for the week before Christmas. The main objective of these trainings (of which we’re having three more) was to relay the steps of the coffee processing which we are promoting to the small coffee producers in order for them to sell their coffee at a later stage in the procedure, thus making more money per pound from their coffee beans. So, as I mentioned, the steps that transform the coffee fruit into a mouth watering cappuccino (my preference) are much more complicated than just picking beans and roasting them, something I’ve noticed of many things I absent mindedly consume. While I can’t imagine I could make it worthy of an episode of How Things are Made, I’ll break it down into the steps we’re teaching the attendees:
First, the coffee fruits, which look a little like small, red grapes, are picked once they’ve matured to a point where they are firm and a consistent deep red. All together, they go through a process to weed out any stained or apparently ‘bad’ fruit, which ensures the quality of the beans later in the process – which is crucial to an even, uniform quality in the subsequent steps.
Once sifted through, the fruit must go through a de-pulping machine on the same day it is picked. These machines can be as simple as the one I’ve shown here or as intricate as the industrial sized, motored-powered ones that the large exporters use. The machine we use removes the peel and flesh of the coffee fruit at a rate of 100 pounds of fruit through the machine per 15 minutes, if being cranked manually.
After the peel and pulp are removed from the bean, the naked beans are washed with clean water (preferably not from a river or contaminated water source) and stored in sacks in a cool, dry storage place for up to 48 hours to encourage fermentation. The fermentation, I’m told, cements the indigenous flavor of the bean.
Once thoroughly fermented, the beans are laid out to dry on any readily available, clean, flat surface. This could mean a homemade drying rack or a metal roof, if otherwise unoccupied. Depending on the weather (and this can only be done in the dry season, which is a complication for some) it can take between 8 and 36 hours to fully dry.
Once dry, the beans are stored in a cool, dry place free of other plants with strong odors, such as bananas or onions, in order to preserve its delicate aroma until it is sold to an exporter or sent in for the final steps of the processing.
All this, before it is roasted and ground, the two steps which I imagined comprised the entire process from exotic coffee plant to steaming coffee mug.
At each of the trainings we had about 60 attendees. At the second training, I worked up the nerve to present myself in Kaqchikel, with the little knowledge and few phrases that I’ve acquired thus far. While I didn’t get very far, I did get a round of applause for the effort which has given me a bit of encouragement to continue with lessons – I’ve had about 25 hours of class up till now.
Ch’oyan chik. Until later, that is..
I’ll start with the two huge coffee trainings we had scheduled for the week before Christmas. The main objective of these trainings (of which we’re having three more) was to relay the steps of the coffee processing which we are promoting to the small coffee producers in order for them to sell their coffee at a later stage in the procedure, thus making more money per pound from their coffee beans. So, as I mentioned, the steps that transform the coffee fruit into a mouth watering cappuccino (my preference) are much more complicated than just picking beans and roasting them, something I’ve noticed of many things I absent mindedly consume. While I can’t imagine I could make it worthy of an episode of How Things are Made, I’ll break it down into the steps we’re teaching the attendees:
First, the coffee fruits, which look a little like small, red grapes, are picked once they’ve matured to a point where they are firm and a consistent deep red. All together, they go through a process to weed out any stained or apparently ‘bad’ fruit, which ensures the quality of the beans later in the process – which is crucial to an even, uniform quality in the subsequent steps.
Once sifted through, the fruit must go through a de-pulping machine on the same day it is picked. These machines can be as simple as the one I’ve shown here or as intricate as the industrial sized, motored-powered ones that the large exporters use. The machine we use removes the peel and flesh of the coffee fruit at a rate of 100 pounds of fruit through the machine per 15 minutes, if being cranked manually.
After the peel and pulp are removed from the bean, the naked beans are washed with clean water (preferably not from a river or contaminated water source) and stored in sacks in a cool, dry storage place for up to 48 hours to encourage fermentation. The fermentation, I’m told, cements the indigenous flavor of the bean.
Once thoroughly fermented, the beans are laid out to dry on any readily available, clean, flat surface. This could mean a homemade drying rack or a metal roof, if otherwise unoccupied. Depending on the weather (and this can only be done in the dry season, which is a complication for some) it can take between 8 and 36 hours to fully dry.
Once dry, the beans are stored in a cool, dry place free of other plants with strong odors, such as bananas or onions, in order to preserve its delicate aroma until it is sold to an exporter or sent in for the final steps of the processing.
All this, before it is roasted and ground, the two steps which I imagined comprised the entire process from exotic coffee plant to steaming coffee mug.
At each of the trainings we had about 60 attendees. At the second training, I worked up the nerve to present myself in Kaqchikel, with the little knowledge and few phrases that I’ve acquired thus far. While I didn’t get very far, I did get a round of applause for the effort which has given me a bit of encouragement to continue with lessons – I’ve had about 25 hours of class up till now.
Ch’oyan chik. Until later, that is..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
