61 Steps

It’s not so much the steps that get you as the long inclines without steps. They can seem so exponentially steep. Sometimes it helps to alternate between accenting the use of your thighs and your calves, and if you’re carrying something heavy – like a book shelf or a hundred pound bag of cement – then the trick is to walk diagonally from side to side. Althea sings or counts incessantly to forget about her legs. That’s how we know there are 61 of those winding stone steps. And really, we have it pretty easy, since those 61 steps are only about one-third of the way for the rest of the people living in the barrio.

It’s been nearly a month since we decided to rent a house up in the oldest and largest neighborhood in San Marcos. Its official name is the unimaginative Barrio Uno (“Neighborhood 1”) a bureaucratic scheme probably influenced by the progeny of conquering Spaniards. The Mayan name for this predominantly Catholic barrio is Xenimab´aj, but very few people now know this. Across from Barrio Uno, on the western hill of San Marcos, lies Barrio Dos (“Neighborhood 2”), a smaller and largely Evangelical neighborhood. In the valley between is Barrio Tres (“Neighborhood 3”), where we have been living and where the school is located.

We decided to move out of the valley of Barrio Tres (or Pa Cheb´en) for a number of reasons, chief of which was the desire to separate our work and home lives. This is an important rule to live by, especially when your whole family is involved in the same work (in this case, starting a school), and even more so when that work happens to take place in and around the one-room stone-cottage-with-an-outdoor-kitchen you call home. Don’t get me wrong – I love our little cottage and outdoor kitchen. It was just a bit much with the work and the rain and the three of us (plus all the dogs and cats). [Schoolhouse construction at right.]

It was a step of both principle and faith to make the move. To be sure, the timing, the absence of furniture and a proper kitchen in the new house, and the uselessness of moving vans in this terrain have definitely posed their share of challenges, not to mention the additional expenses that come along (yes, we’re still eating on the floor). Nonetheless, it seems to have been the right decision. The distinction between work and home now allows us to effectively “turn off” when we come home. Courtney is particularly relieved. Our enchanted garden in Barrio Tres is now commonly understood to be the school, Escuela Caracol, which has gone a long way to establishing the school’s burgeoning identity within the community.

There are also some very bright perks about living up in the barrio. For one, we now have a lovely view of the lake and the valley, which previously was only to be had by climbing a jocote tree in the garden. Watching the rain roll across the lake while listening to the light din of town noises below has become a favorite pastime of ours. The social aspect has been refreshing as well. Barrio Tres is the municipal and commercial heart of San Marcos, but residentially speaking, it is more or less known as the “gringo” barrio (though the distinction is not without exception). Given our desire to bring together the children of both Maya and international families, we felt it important to live closer to indigenous families. Our new house is right on the path and also at a convenient resting point, so we get to “stoop-sit” and chat with passers-by a lot more than we did before. People in Barrio Uno are rather surprised by our desire to live up there, joking that now we’ll get our exercise on those 61 steps, but at the same time they have been remarkably welcoming to us.

We did have one startling night this past week, though. Sunday was an election day in Guatemala, and the mayoral race in our little village was hotly contested. At about 2:30 am on Monday morning, I was awakened by a rather frantic call from a friend, asking what all the racket was about. At that same moment, we became aware of the curious ruckus in the town below. It was then we realized that a portion of the noise was getting closer and closer, until the sound of a mob was right outside our door, banging on our roof and shaking our gate. Within a couple minutes, they were gone.

Over the next hour we learned that small-scale riots had broken out following the announcement that our mayor had been reelected for his third term of four years. A large group of people went and broke into the municipal building and burned all the ballots, and this group was returning when they passed our house. Perhaps there was some confusion with one of the mayor’s seven large houses that are above us, or perhaps some association with a former treasurer who owns the house we’re renting, but in any case they backed off shortly. We were fortunate not to be near the more serious chaos that surrounded the mayor’s actual residence, where a small squad of riot police were called in and broken glass still litters the streets. Quite a strange turn of events for our normally tranquil little pueblo. Now there will be a second election in November at the same time as the presidential run-off, so all the commotion of campaign songs, marches and bombas (bomb-like fireworks without the pleasure of light and color) will commence again until November.

But up in our little house on the hill in Barrio Uno, our family feels safe and secure from the threats posed in the valley by too much heat from elections, too much stress from work, and too much water from hurricanes. 61 steps seem to be just what we need.

Viaje Norte

Last you heard from us, we were back in Guatemala and determined to stay forever, right? Well, shortly thereafter, the plans that had been marinating in the folds of my mind finally got to cooking. Ironically enough, they led straight back to the US, though this time I was flying solito – well, without the family, at least. Yes, only days after our two new puppies were delivered to our door – and only days before our two new kittens were to be born – I left the wife and kid on their own in Guatemala. Madness, I know, but such are the ways of our dreamlike plans.

To my credit, there was a dual necessity that this trip resolved: what to do with the van, and what to do with Leroy. If we were going to stay in Guatemala and make a go at “stability,” then a camper van was rather an incongruous luxury. The transition from four wheels to four walls was nearly complete, and we no longer had need to drive. What’s more, selling the van would provide much needed cash to replenish the gaping whole left by a long hospital stay. So selling the van made sense, although the logic had its tragic dimensions.

Then there was Leroy – that big beast who’d been passed around like a huge hot potato from Virginia to Florida, all the while with the promise of a reuniting, dim as it seemed. If we were truly going to make a home at the lake, Leroy would be required to make it feel complete, to bring closure to the epoch voyage, to appease our guilty consciences. This meant a trip to the US to fetch the old boy. Selling the van in Guatemala was not a bright prospect due to monstrous import taxes, so the plan became clear: drive the van to the US, get Leroy, come home. Oh so simple.

The only hitch was finding a co-pilot, as Thea and Court were committed to the homefront, and I was not interested in driving Mexico alone. So I cast the net out to a bunch of folk who all had too many obligations to jump into what I was billing as a self-styled Latin adventure. Finally I wore two people down at the same time and ended up with a co-pilot and a flight attendant.

The day after the Spring Equinox I set out on my last voyage in Catarina with my old friend Simon and my new friend Will (aka, Chivo). We cruised across Guatemala, through Belize, and up into Mexico, roaming about Mayan ruins and swimming in a different body of water each day (at least that was the plan). We drove nearly everyday, but still managed to take in our share of waterfalls, hot springs, lakes, and beaches. Simon’s mania for “new water” every day even led him to hitch his way out to the waterfall at Misol Ha just as night was falling. He had to sneak his way in to get to the waterfall, then later talk his way into the guardhouse to arrange a floor on which to sleep.

Semana Santa was fast approaching, and our goal was to get to Texas before everything in Mexico was either crowded or closed. We were almost stalled by a huge electrical storm when we were only one day out from both the border and Semana Santa. Though it gave us a fright, the water and sand fortunately could not match Catarina’s all-terrain tires.

Our first day in Texas took us to the home of the world’s largest biscuit (big as your head!), a fortress of a mansion outside San Antonio where we dropped off Will, and finally to the Gillette homestead near Austin, where Courtney’s sister and her family warmly welcomed Simon and me with horseback riding and three amazing meals a day. We also got the added bonus of visiting with Courtney’s parents, Jerry and Gloria, for a bit. It was a healthy dose of in-laws that defied the much maligned stereotype. The time there passed all too quickly, as Simon returned to DC and I moved on to Melbourne Beach, Florida.

I landed at the McKinley’s the night before Easter and found Andrea making two wool bunnies while Zach fed two real bunnies. Before long we found ourselves discussing the pros and cons of presenting the rabbits to the kids by releasing them in their room while they slept. The next day I was privileged to join in the Easter festivities at the elder McKinley’s house, where I met Zach’s parents (and Andrea’s parents), his siblings, his aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces. There was a strange comfort in the markedly Southern character of the event that I was not expecting – the chicken casserole (just like mom’s), the “y’all”, the dirt bike, the granddaughter everyone called “lil bit.” Tones of Alabama, I guess.

During the week that followed I spent my mornings hanging out with the kids, my afternoons reconnecting with Leroy and making preparations for his trip to Guatemala, my evenings fishing on the beach, and my nights roaming Melbourne Beach with Zach on bikes. All of this was continually punctuated with great meals and good conversation. I was, however, going on week three away from my family, and this was starting to take its toll.

Arrangements for importing an animal into Guatemala are actually rather straightforward. A form is circulated from the vet to numerous officials and back again---involved but clear. Arranging a flight for an animal is another matter all together, especially when that animal is just shy of 150 pounds. On top of that there are only two airlines that fly four-legged creatures to Guate; they’re expensive and won’t book a reservation until within three days.

So I found a cargo company out of Miami that was much cheaper and somewhat more convenient, or so it seemed. The only catch is that the two flights a week left at midnight and arrived in Guatemala at 5 am the next morning. Andrea and Zach kindly offered to drive Leroy and me down to Miami in their truck.

So there we are in the pick-up rolling down 95, the wind flapping in Leroy’s ears and the cell phone rings. Leroy’s flight is cancelled.

We pulled over to think it through, and I started to scramble. I called kennels in Miami – all full. I started calling other airlines. My ear was burning from hours of cell phone calls. Then another call from the cargo company: the flight is back on. Wait, hold on, no, maybe it’s not…call back in 15 minutes.

We decided to go straight to the offices for a face to face, but when we showed up no one was there. Now things were getting weird. Ah, wrong address. When we arrived at the correct location, they told me that the flight was a go – they were going to make a stop in Guatemala just for Leroy.

Once Leroy was checked in and secure, we went off to have our little night in Miami. We roamed South Beach for quite a while, navigating the zoo of restaurants and bars, dodging the myriad Vegas-esque food displays, and noting the people dining on either side of the walkway. We wondered who exactly was on display. When we finally settled at an outdoor club with black-clad waiters serving mojitos over mediocre salsa music, we found ourselves saying over and over again, “this is just like being in Miami.” I guess that’s the South Beach experience.

When I arrived in Guatemala the following afternoon, the trauma of Courtney’s Guatemalan bureaucratic nightmare had started to wear off slightly. She spent three and half hours going back and forth between various offices and corridors of offices and checkpoints where you fill out a form and leave your ID. One guy made an issue of a two pound difference between Leroy’s cargo weight listed on two different forms. Another guy sent her to an office that was mysteriously vacated. And yet another demanded her Guatemalan ID number, which she was forced to make up. Finally, she was faced with an “official” who told her that Leroy was too big to be released in Guatemala without authority from the Ministry of Agriculture, which was closed that day. Courtney realized it was time to either pay up or tear up. She chose the latter (to my great satisfaction), and Leroy was released to her within minutes.

Now Leroy is safe and sound and enjoying retirement. He spends his days off-leash, hiking mountains and swimming in the lake. He’s even stopped shedding, which I never imagined possible. He’s getting along reasonably well with the two pups, though the male tends to annoy him and often steals his bed. The kittens, however, are his new obsession. He will follow them around all day sometimes, just watching. They’ve learned that if they don’t run, he won’t chase them.

And us – we’re doing well. We’ve gotten through feria (the noisy, trashy, weeklong birthday of the town – Saint Mark’s day), the month of May (and the ubiquitous illnesses referred to singularly as “mal de mayo”), and the start of the rains, which brought about a number of suddenly imperative home improvements. We’re getting into the flow of rainy season now, which means getting up early to enjoy the sun and cozying up somewhere for the afternoon rains. And we're starting to get a great pitaya harvest.






We have also thrown ourselves headlong into starting a small Waldorf-styled school at our place. Right now we have a kindergarten that meets twice a week, and we’re planning to formally expand it to five days a week in January. It’s an exciting project, but the amount of work (and politics) involved is sometimes daunting. I think back a lot to the hike that Simon and I made to the top of the San Pedro volcano just before leaving on our trip north. The volcano is some 10,000 feet high, a long and terribly vertical hike – definitely the most difficult of our lives. At many times I found myself saying that I was going to blow it off and turn around. Then somehow we’d just keeping moving. Often I had to literally move my legs with my arms, just to make a step. In the end, it was worth it though, as we were treated to one of the most remarkable views in the world. The lesson I took away from that experience – which I remember in my mind as well as my body – is that when you are climbing what feels like an impossible mountain, you must simply keep your eyes three feet in front of you.

[check out more pics, if you want, by following the link above in the "links" menu at left.]

One Year Out

When someone makes a decision, he is really diving into a strong current that will carry him to places he had never dreamed of when he first made the decision.

Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

18 February 2007

It's about 8pm and I just finished washing the dishes in our outdoor kitchen. Standing in the spotlight of a single 60 watt bulb, I scrubbed a stainless steel pot. But not just any old pot—one that has survived the entirety of our 8 year and 2 month marriage. With shiny zeal, it braved the early years of spaghetti and burnt rice. It now boasts a savory Thai curry coconut dish, and most recently it's been flavor central for the boiled delicacy of Guatemalan chipilín (a stemy plant with small green leaves and miniature yellow flowers). As I stood there at our concrete sink and looked out at the banana trees, which keep a centurion watch over a small grove of coffee plants, I placed my pot to dry anew and remembered packing it for the first time in the compact kitchen of our van.

It was on this day a year ago that we set out on our so-called suburban exodus. The cold gray morning was punctuated by the garish-orange of a dreaded last minute trip to Home Depot. Still I remember asking Josh if he had found a cargo net and he telling me that the well-informed clerk responded to his inquiry with, "What in tha hayum sayundwich iza cargo neyt?" We got out of there with our plywood as quickly as possible. The clock was ticking, and our plan to leave by 11:00 am was pushed back to a 3:00 pm deadline. Josh and his dad crafted shelves for our 2ft by 1ft "pantry," and his mom and I sifted through the last of the things to go. Our friend, Mary, stopped by to deliver two containers of the meanest, most magical salsa. It made it all the way to Alabama. My sister kindly and creatively crafted a bag of Whole Foods booty, which we didn't exhaust until we were well along Mexico's Pacific coastline. And Althea still talks about the granola bars and oranges that our neighbor, Milka, sent along for the journey. Between building, packing, and visiting, our afternoon slid on and so did the sun. It wasn't until about 8:00 pm that we finally loaded up Thea and her panda bear, hugged our kin with tear-brimming eyes and closed the door on life in suburbia.

We headed out into the dark, frigid night with a dreamlike determination wherein the certainty that so characterized the preceding months melted into a misty haze. From McLean to Roanoke we drove shivering, somewhat stunned. I kept asking Josh if he felt mildly traumatized, because I did. And somewhere between Baton Rouge and Austin we grew weary of explaining to everyone our utter uncertainty of where we would end up and how we would support not only ourselves but also Althea. It became easier to have in hand a final destination, and so we threw all of our chips in on Belize. We've been there before....we have friends there....it's "English-speaking".... and the biodiversity could leave one wide-eyed for a long lifetime. But as we approached day 40 in Belize with still no prospect of a mechanic, still no clear picture of even a short-term plan, we came face-to-face with the fact that the fit just wasn't right for our permanent residency. Stunningly beautiful as it is, Belize was not to be our “promised land.” It was time for us to forge ahead. But to where? And then what?

To cure our case of brokedown blues and wilderness wanderings, we made our way to Belmopan's finest Chinese establishment for some fried chicken and French fries. This had become an almost weekly ritual, sometimes accompanied by a plate of steamed broccoli to ease our conscience over the amount of grease, starch and hormones we were ingesting. As always, just as the food was being carried hot from the kitchen, Althea expressed her dying urge for me to take her to the bathroom. Such are children. Staring at the faded walls inside the tiny and less-than-sterile cube, I decided to return to the table with a mental exercise. "Josh," I asked, "If you could paint the picture of your ideal living situation, what would it look like?" To which he replied, "What in tha hayum sayundwich izahn ideal living situation?" But the sarcasm faded, and a moment of genuine visualization ensued. We agreed that we both needed to be near a body of water, but also not far from the mountains. We desired elements of rural, off-the-grid living, but accompanied by the cultural perks of town life—and without the incessant driving. We both wanted Althea to learn to speak Spanish fluently, but we also preferred a multicultural atmosphere. We were inclined to a somewhat progressive community, but at the same time we liked the idea of being close to traditional indigenous culture. And, of course, I had my own extravagant addendum that there be some decent yoga instruction. What would we do for a living in this tailor-made utopia? At the time, that seemed beyond the reach of our collective imagination. Besides, our plates were empty and our bellies full. We paid the bill, each wishing we hadn't eaten so much, each wondering how hard reality was laughing at the audacity of our reckless dream.

This line of questioning and envisioning, however, proved difficult to arrest once set in motion. What were we doing on the road anyway? What was it we left in search of? What did we expect to find? Were we simply seeking some distance from the corruption and darkness of an imperial throne? Reprieve from a culture on the brink of suicidal madness? A warmer climate where we could live closer to the earth? A sense of clarity about our roles in life? Well, yes, it would seem that, at least subconsciously, we indeed crafted this journey—this suburban exodus—in the mould of a wistful and naïve search for ourselves and our place in the world. How terribly hackneyed and sentimental of us. And now one would expect that, a year later, after suffering the trials of disappointed expectations, unexpected appointments, and even a hearty dose of calamity, the hazy dust cloud of disillusionment would settle and we would graciously resign ourselves to the elusive yet seemingly noble truth of acquiescence. One would expect that we would come to terms with the subtle and understated verity of all journeys—that the goal of the journey is not the destination, but rather the journey itself. It would seem that we didn't really have to sell everything, leave home and travel some 10,000 miles into foreign lands in order to find ourselves and our place in the world. But to this austere and academic view proffered by the self-proclaimed men of quiet desperation, I, Josh, must interject: that's pretty much what happened to us.

When we imagined our "ideal living situation" over fried chicken and fries, it was primarily an attempt to alleviate our despondent confusion. We hadn't a clue that such a place might actually exist.

And now, here we are in San Marcos la Laguna, a small town in the mountains around Lake Atitlán, where it's springtime year-round—never too hot, never too cold. The community is mostly Maya, but with a significant international contingency, and Spanish is the lingua franca. In town there are a plethora of restaurants and numerous centers for alternative healing. Workshops, classes, concerts and celebrations of every sort are frequent, and yet, at night, the town is not filled with lights. It gets very dark, and the stars are brilliant. We walk everywhere and never drive, environmental consciousness is growing, composting toilets are common, and solar power is actually quite practical. What's more, the town even boasts outstanding yoga instruction. No, it's not perfect. It has its share of problems, but it's more or less the place we unintentionally set out to find. Each morning we awake, we continue to feel that assurance, which brings with it a sense of gratitude we try to carry throughout our day. So, yes, we're going to stay here for a while, sell our wheels, settle in, and root down. Which is to say, our suburban exodus is coming to a close.

And what are we going to do with ourselves? We thought you'd never ask….