coldhearted scientist وداد

My banner picture was taken in Chichicastenango, Guatemala, the most touristy town in El Quiché, but I was on my way to Nebaj, from whence I went walking in the Ixil Triangle. I did not get as far as Uspantán, true Rigoberta Menchú territory, but I did find Chajul, where her brother was burned (or shot, according to David Stoll) in the plaza. At San Juan de Cotzal, I looked for a place to have lunch, but it was late. A woman who sold lunches from her house offered me tortillas and hierbas del campo, with an apology for not having anything else. I said that would easily do. I did not say that I was secretly delighted, because this is the authentic Rigoberta Menchú meal.

The tortillas were thick and made of blue corn, and hierbas del campo turned out to be vegetables in a rich, aromatic broth. On the way back to Nebaj I came upon a man who had ridden his horse to Uspantán to buy two more horses, and was now having some trouble leading them back, as they were untrained. We decided I should lead the older one, so that he could give his attention to the most difficult, and we laughed all the way home, since the younger horse did not want to stay on the path, and was in constant danger of falling down the ravine. ¡Este caballo se quiere morir! ¡Tendremos que llamar al psiquiatra! This man had spent his childhood hiding up in the mountains because of the war, but now he had learned some Spanish, and we could talk.

I had more difficulty talking at a New Year’s Eve party I got invited to, in a tiny village closer to Nebaj. Everyone but my host spoke only Ixil, and his mother, in her headdress, sat at the nixtamal grinding corn. There were tamales, and at midnight we each ate twelve grapes, as in Spain.

Later I caught a ride from a Peace Corps type in a Land Rover, and made my way to Huehuetenango, where I slept near an open window. The soil composition and vegetation were so similar to those of the town where I grew up, that it smelled just like home, and entre sueños I thought I was there, and worried that I might miss the school bus (and indeed, it is North American school buses one rides in Guatemala).

At the Mexican border there is a kind of no man’s land. You get off your school bus, and ride in the back of a pickup truck to the border station. Once armed with a Guatemalan exit visa, you walk across a patch of mud to the Mexican entry station, a much fancier building than the Guatemalan one, it must be said. From there, you take a Mexican pickup truck to the main road, where collective vans are waiting to take you on to Comitán.

As I picked my way across the patch of mud, one of the Guatemalan pickup drivers walked past, looking for fares. I was attempting not to sink in the puddles, and it must not have been entirely clear to him in which direction I was headed. Señorita, ¿va usted a Guatemala? he asked. No, señor, a San Cristóbal, I responded. I had to go that way, as my return flight was from Mexico City. But I so wanted to answer, “Sí.”

I think of these things now because I have been planting in the garden, seeing how the water mixes with the sun, and the petals with the soil.

Axé.