About two years ago, during our first stretch at the ranch together, Sparky and I spent an afternoon here, at Bico’s Bar. It is a small, non-descript place, with not too much to offer besides cold beer and a few pinball machines that line the back wall. Puriscal locals stop by to buy smokes from the friendly bartender, she hands the cigarettes through the window open to the street outside and then returns her attention to the television where she is captivated by her daily novelas.

The place hasn’t changed one bit. The same woman is behind the bar, the gaming corner is just as I remember it, and the TV is blaring. Without thinking about it, we sit on the same stools that we did the last time we were here. We have been looking forward to this day for quite some time, it being the last stop before reaching Mastatal. We order two Imperials and we wait for that final bus.

Our last discussion at this place concerned itself with a film idea, that we never made, about the chance encounters one experiences in life that dictate so much. A pretty simple premise that was inspired from a conversation Sparks had with the legendary Sir Roger Wally, a Rancho pioneer. To start, we planned on throwing three darts at a map of the States and finding a beginning point through the triangulation of those points. From that spot we would move in one cardinal direction determined through a formula of coin tosses. Whenever a dead end was reached the formula would be replayed to determine our next move. The random people we would meet, the places we would find, and the lives we would intersect would all be filmed. I imagine that our experiences in the past two months are similar to what would have happened if “Heads or Tails” would have come to fruition. Our decision to move to Seattle was also solidified on those very stools. It was nice to be back in this familiar space.

We had every intention of spending the afternoon writing our final posts before reaching the Ranch but those plans changed when we met Arnie, a Brit that has been living in Mastatal for a while. He filled us in on much of the recent happenings as we chatted away the afternoon. The bus came and, two hours later, we were back at our second home. We didn’t get any writing done that afternoon.

A week and a half have passed since we arrived back in Mastatal and, as always, we fell right into the work going on here. We have buddied up with all the new folks and reconnected with a number of old friends. We have been timber-framing, gardening, building, creating, eating great food, swimming a lot, laughing a lot, living well. We will get more into all that later on, but first we need to fill in the past few weeks, since the time we left Xela…

With the advice of a brilliant Canadian, aptly named Brian, we found our way to a chicken bus headed to Zunil, a small Maya village just outside of the springs, Fuentes Georginas.  Almost eight years ago, I visited Zunil, but could not now remember the reason for going.  Later on, I would realize that it was because of San Simon, a life-size mannequin that represents a Maya god.  People come from all over the country to visit him, leave offerings at his feet (or dump liquor down his throat), and sometimes even dress him in new clothes.  His location changes every year as a new family houses him.  They get to keep the offerings as payment for taking care of San Simon.  We did not visit him on this trip simply because I failed to remember he was the reason for my initial visit.

Instead, we hopped off the chicken bus, walked across a small bridge over a stream strewn with Pepsi cups and laundry detergent bags, and found a shoeless farmer napping by a pick-up.  Before we were within audible distance, he had leaped from his slumber and asked if we needed a ride to the Fuentes.  Within minutes, we corraled into the back of his truck, sliding on soggy carrots and leafy green remnants.  He ran down to the stream to collect his shoes, and moments later, we were off.

I had not ridden through beautiful countryside in such style since my last visit to Mastatal, about a year ago.  Here in Guatemala, women strolled by with hands at their sides, baskets full of fresh produce balanced carefully atop their heads.  A handwoven headdress aided this balance, and their hair was often meticulously braided through these ornamental cloth bands.  Their dresses marked unbelievable talent, an art lost for many of us in the clothing we wear today.  In the background, men tirelessly worked the fields.  Like Mastatal, many of these fields stretched vertically up steep hillsides.  Landowners grow crops on any inch of possible fertile soil.  Children learn the trades of mother and father alike, destined to lead a similar life.

“Is there a more widespread notion than the one that rural people are laconic, and is there a rural place anywhere in the world whose people really are?” -Tracy Kidder (Mountains Beyond Mountains)

There is something to be said for this way of life, this family structure.  Every single vegetable in those baskets was once a seed, carefully planted in freshly tilled earth by hand.  They are sold in local markets, consumed, and the cycle continues.  Large market days become a family affair and a social gathering between families and groups.  These families are farmers, through and through.  There is a life cycle within their work as there is within their own existence.  Everything is done on a familiar scale, nurtured from seedling to full form, without means of machine.

At the Ranch, we attempt to buy everything locally that we do not grow ourselves.  Our own crop is steadily expanding now that we have a more solid infrastructure to work from.  In the States, we may buy organic or purchase veggies from a local farmers´ market, occasionally at best for many of us.  It is not difficult to find local goods for reasonable prices, and buying locally does wonders.  Seek out worthwhile CSAs, buy your fruits and veggies at local stands, and talk to the people from whom you purchase what you eat.  Gain an understanding for what you put in your body, and support someone who needs and deserves it.

This past December, just before leaving Seattle for this trip, I visited the Ballard Market with Kat, yet another friend through the Ranch.  Blocks were lined with local farmers, artisans, and amazing bakers, cheese-makers, and inventors.  Dogs of various sizes smiled just as sincerely as their human counterparts as they took in the sights and smells.  A couple teenagers wooed a large crowd as they balanced on large inflatable balls and juggled bowling pins while playing the violin with a chair balanced on their chins.  We walked slowly and talked to everyone we passed, many of whom Kat had already known.  We sampled some of the greatest foods I had ever tasted, and we purchased a bit from this person and a bit from that person.  I would get bear-hugged from behind by friends that I had not seen in months.  The Ballard Market creates community.

Here in Xela, we have been cooking many of our own meals.  For just a few dollars per meal between four of us, we have been enjoying spectacular meals.  Every ingredient can be found a half-block away at a small indoor market.  We take our time picking out the best vegetables and try to spend a bit of money at each vendor.  Their faces are becoming familiar, and they are starting to recognize us with smiles and friendly greetings.  It just feels right.

We live in times of a struggling economy, large corporations are getting bailed out, yet, in many circumstances, its higher-ups are receiving bonuses even as their doors ready themselves for closure.  I encourage anyone reading to support a bottom-up approach instead of the other option.  A society is based on its people at its core, and supporting its people is the best way to sustain it.

Guatemala has had some rough spells, and its people largely still suffer because of them.  In the early 1950s, the first democratically elected leaders of Guatemala were overthrown in a coup détat.  Because they attempted to redistribute wealth and land so that the impoverished could survive, they were labeled communists.  Really, US-backed organizations like the United Fruit Company were threatened by the loss of land, and so they pressured our government to take action.  We have recently admitted to taking an active role in supporting the Guatemalan military and thus playing a part in beginning Guatemala´s Civil War, which did not end until 1996.  During that time, over one million people were displaced, and many others murdered in what is nothing less than genocide.  Today, the majority of the nation´s wealth is owned by less than ten percent of its population.

This is a people that relies on its food production.  In the States, we could do wonders to support hunger worldwide.  Our production of corn alone could alleviate much of the world´s poverty, but we grow most of it for feeds.  The majority of the fields we see throughout the Midwest are full of corn inedible to humans because it has been grown for the sole purpose of fattening cows to provide our “much-needed” protein.  News flash: we are a culture fattening almost as fast as our livestock; thanks veal for evening the balance.

The last few years, I have met loads of people who work tirelessly to re-balance our society.  Julia Butterfly Hill lived in a California Redwood for over two years to save a forest.  Van Jones proves that working towards a healthier environment can also alleviate poverty while giving people the means to be successful.  Majora Carter extends this invitation to those living in unforgivable (as once thought) conditions in the South Bronx, creating a model of change that could someday even beautify Gary, Indiana.  Rha Goddess demonstrates with a certain glow that art and music can inspire goodness and ideas worth working toward.  Sarah Kelley of SEMAP helps to connect small farms in Southeastern Massachusetts to each other, to the public, and creates excitement for locally produced goods.  I have had recent encounters with college students from Humboldt State and Pacific University who struggle through limited funding to keep their small organic farms and CSAs alive.  Tim, Robin, Tyler, Geoff, Desa, Alan, Liz and so many others that I have met through the Ranch make me realize that our class, our group, our collective mind can make a reasonable, healthy and sustainable lifestyle possible.

Every decision we make has effect on our surroundings and the individuals within it.  Everything we buy registers our consumer vote; business does not succeed without a customer.

Throughout the world, there are people planting seeds and harvesting crops on lands that are more steep than most of us could climb in a day.  Oftentimes, because they can not afford to let the land sit, this leads to overgrazing and overproduction of the soils.  This regularly results in infertility and sometimes landslides, leaving landowners in worse positions from where they started.  Supporting local agriculture and smaller business gives them the tools and resources to alleviate many of these problems.

I urge you to consider, even for a minute, that there are many people whose stresses outweigh your own.  And you can help with very little effort.  It may even make you feel good about yourself.  For any action, regardless of its intent, whether or not you were directly involved at its onset, if you reap its benefits, you are directly responsible for its consequences.  Please consider your decisions before making them.  Thanks so much.

-Sparky

Santa Maria

Eden Fletcher

Our species is alone in this mentality to conquer.  All other organisms coexist  with their environment, operating within the laws of nature.  But we build machines that take us to the deepest trenches of the ocean or launch us into space, and only mankind would risk life to climb a mountain.   Throughout recorded time, those that conquer, be it for riches or territory or even men, have been the victors in the history books.  Ceasar, Columbus, Napoleon just to name three.  But this way of thinking has its counterpart.  For many the natural world is something to marvel and to embrace.  The entity that we owe everything to and should try to live in harmony with.

The Sherpa people that have lived in the high Himalayas for hundreds of years refer to the mountain as Chomolungma which translates to Mother Goddess.  The mountain is seen as the holiest of places and therefore, until western influence, Everest was never climbed.  It was approached with humility and respect and admiration.  When I examine Mallory’s quote I see arrogance.  Surely a man would not risk so much without a truer motivation.  Perhaps one of the reasons that the Hillary/Norgay expedition was successful was that the two men climbed as a team (for years neither man told which was the first to actually stand at the summit).  And they wore their finest business suits under their animal skins to show reverence for the mountain.  Where Mallory’s team attempted to conquer, Hillary and Norgay succeeded in communing.

Norgay has been one of my idols for some time.  I once saw his son, Jambling Tenzig Norgay speak at my college and was enamored with  his accomplishments in mountaineering and inspired by his approach to nature.  He spoke about himself as a small and insignificant creature and commented on the humbling effect that a mountain the size of Everest has on a climber.  He talked about his Buddhist ideology and the “stillness” he experiences when he climbs.  From a young age his father had taught him how to live as one with nature and for this reason he carries on his legacy today.

Some of the most profound moments of my life have occurred in the wilderness.  Moments of pure exhileration and utter pain.  Extremes of hunger and cold, bliss and exhaustion, peace and isolation.  It’s an emotion that exists no where else.  I believe that the quest for this feeling  is what makes men like the Norgays exceptional climbers.  And having experienced a stillness myself I feel I have much in common with these men.

On Sunday morning I had such a moment.

From nearly any vantage point in Xela, the towering Santa Maria volcano  provides a background to the city’s buildings.  It reaches 12,500 feet into the sky, a perfect cone shape, like the ones you used to draw in grade school.  Santa Maria represents the duality of nature both life giving and destructive.  It is responsible for the valley’s fertile soil but has also destroyed the surrounding area as recently as 1902, when the last sizable eruption took place.  It has been documented as the third largest eruption of the twentieth century, lasting nineteen days and spewing a column of ash 28km high.

With the illumination of the moon, nearly full, we set out for the summit around midnight, hoping to reach  the top for an epic sunrise.  We were accompanied by some locals that showed us the way.  The approach to the trail head took us through open pasture and manicured plots where Maya cultivate cabbage and carrots and tubers.  The ground began to harden under our feet as we ascended and the grass glistened with ice.

After two or so hours of following the grazing tracks we entered the national park, the forest thickened and we soon found ourselves at the base of the cone.  One of our escorts sighed with exacerbation, “Now the real fun begins.”  The trail switch-backed up the side getting progressively steeper as we went.  The grade was such that scrambling was necessary in many places and we found our lungs noticing the thinner air. The breaks in the trees presented amazing views of the town twinkling below. Only momentary rests allowed us to catch our breath before the cold motivated us to keep moving.  Sparky, Scooter, myself, and our new friend Ed pulled away from the rest of the group, riding the wave of adrenaline that the woods can give.

The trees transitioned from deciduous to evergreen and then began to shrink as we approached tree line.  Finally we were surrounded by only grasses and boulders, an environment too harsh for any other vegetation.  The temperature was near zero and the wind cut through our new wool sweaters, chilling us to the core.

We were surprised with the amount of tents we found upon reaching the top.  Obviously, we were not the only ones willing to suffer a bit for such an inspiring experience.  We had about an hour to kill before the sun came up, so we  sought out shelter between some of the larger rocks. We climbed into our sleeping bags , huddled together and tried to absorb the power of this place.  The stars slowly faded as the horizon began to glow, and just as we thought we couldn’t take the cold any longer, the sun began to slice through the morning fog. 

We emerged from our bags as the mountaintop came alive.  Ice turned to dew, the tents rustled with life.  Our smiles transcended our different languages. Travelers and locals alike awakened in awe.  The light crawled from the horizon across the mountains of the western highlands as they peaked their pointy heads above the clouds.  Another beautiful Guatemalan day had begun.

The sun rejuvenated the small community that had gathered and many of us made our way to the crater’s edge to view Santiaguito, Santa Maria’s sister volcano.  This second vent was formed in a 1922 eruption and has been erupting ever since.  Billows of smoke and ash are released about every hour, so we took a seat and waited for a show.  This place is a anomaly, the only place on the globe where an active volcano can be observed from above.  We were running out of patience when it started.  There was no sound, just an explosion of thick white smoke that tumbled upward.  It dissipated after a few minutes and mixed with the clouds and in doing so, refracted the light creating a rainbow in a perfect circle, rather than the usual arch.

Once our bones were warm again it was tough to leave.  We had planned on heading to Chichicastenango for the Sunday market, the largest and oldest in Central America, but our plans were put on hold, which seems to be the pattern as of late.  We enjoyed a leisurely walk down, stopping often to take in the views and relish the fresh air.  It looked different in the light and sections reminded me of The White Mountains of New Hampshire and the North Cascades.

As we descended we passed dozens of Mayan families.  Dressed in their beautifully woven garments they scaled the now slippery mud slope in heeled sandals and loafers.  Infants strapped to their grandmother’s back, men and women of all ages, and children willed themselves up the incline through the increasing heat.  We were greeted by each person with a genuine Buenos Diii-as, stretched out like a southern drawl as we stepped aside to let them pass.We later learned that religious rituals of prayer and sacrifice take place atop the mountain every Sunday morning. 

The mountain top has always been a spiritual place, here is no different.  Mount Olympus was the home of the Gods in Greek mythology.  And the Jewish God revealed his commandments to Moses on Mt. Sinai.  Most Buddhist monasteries are perched high in the mountains as they believe it to be the most conducive place for meditation.  In the Shinto faith Mt. Fuji is the ultimate symbol of spiritual power.  And Jack Kerouac was inspired to write The Dharma Bums after spending time in the Washington mountains; basically a modern story where men search for enlightenment through mountain climbing.  I would like to borrow some of his words to close with.  I feel like this excerpt embodies the idea that I am trying to get across with this post.

“The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”

-Nate

P.S.  Our new favorite guy, Ed, that we have been traveling with since San Cristobal is basically Japhy Ryder and wrote a kick-ass poem about our experience.  Thanks to him for writing our first guest post…

Josh Leading a Xela Rugby practice

Josh and I were first put into contact through a neutral friend, a certain Mr Mike Tuke, for whom we have both had the great pleasure of playing rugby with. After meeting Josh in Dec 08 I was immediately impressed by his dedication, knowledge, and passion for rugby. I hope this short interview does him, and Xela Rugby justice. Keep up the good work Josh!

SCOOTER: So Josh, I need your name, age,  nationality, and occupation here in Xela?

JOSH: Mr Josh Macy, 25 years old, from DC (USA). I have spent the last three years in Xela, working as the principle of the Inter-American school.

SCOOTER: When did you first start playing rugby and why?

JOSH: I have always enjoyed competition and had spent most of my youth playing American football and basketball. A group of friends introduced me to Rugby during my freshman year at college, I was immediately hooked! Rugby is like a disease; once it is in your blood, it stays there!

SCOOTER: How did you go about starting Rugby here in Xela?

JOSH: When I arrived in Guatemala, Rugby did not exist. With the help of a few friends, the first Xela training session was held in April 2006. Ten people were present that day, some Guatemalan and some International. The session was held on a very small pitch, one side was covered with glass and concrete, and the other was located next to a canyon. As we only had one ball; training would have to stop for several minutes every time the ball went out of play. Thankfully we now play on a far safer pitch! Since 2006 there has been a steady growth and we now have a squad of around twenty five.

SCOOTER: What has been your most difficult challenge?

JOSH: We have a lot of interest in Rugby, this in in part because Guatemala has very few organised sports and many people want to compete. Our main problem is getting people to stay and become enthusiastic for a game. This is because most people are put off by the contact element of the game. Unlike most other countries, Guatemala does not have many contact sports and hence the culture is very dismissive of a sport where injuries are a strong possibility.

SCOOTER: What do you find most rewarding?

JOSH: Giving people the opportunity to better themselves through sport. Rugby gives people a sense of pride and accomplishment. An example would be, providing opportunity for the team to travel to countries such as Panama, Costa Rica and Mexico as well as throughout Guatemala.

SCOOTER: How does the Xela team function with both Guatemalan and International players?

JOSH: This combination works extremely well, I find that it is mutually beneficial; The Guatemalan players receive experience and knowledge from travelling players, whilst the International players are provided with an “In” into Guatemalan culture. Guatemalans are very kind people who are very open to friendship, they work very hard to accommodate International players; by finding jobs and places for them to stay.

SCOOTER: How do you think Rugby benefits Xela and Guatemala?

JOSH: As well as providing people with something to do, Rugby is an interesting alternative to soccer, which is extremely popular here. Rugby has a completely different ethic set to soccer; where soccer players may get on each others backs (blame culture), rugby teaches encouragement, respect and teamwork. As Rugby becomes a more significant part of the culture, I hope this ethic will spread, both in and outside of the sport. I also believe that Guatemala has a better chance of making the Rugby world cup than the soccer world cup, just imagine what that would do for the country!

SCOOTER: Where do you see Guatemalan Rugby in five years?

JOSH: I think we will see a few changes, the most important will be the growth of the sport. I believe we will have youth rugby for all ages in most major cities, this will strengthen the adult leagues by providing a stronger player pool.

SCOOTER: Have you any contact details if people have any rugby related queries?

JOSH: Sure, just email me at; joshmacy@gmail.com

SCOOTER: Thanks buddy

-Scooter

Soccer is a gentleman´s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligans´game played by gentlemen. Growing up playing soccer, I was proud to say I was another player in the world´s most popular sport. Traveling today, a person can find pick-up games anywhere he or she goes. It is an easy way to ease into another culture and connect with its people. If rugby were as popular, the world would be a better place. If it were a religion, there would be no wars. People may just understand that competition can exist without lacking respect.

Maybe this is an exaggeration, but I have found comfort in Xela largely because of the local rugby team. Scooter played with the Guatemalan national team last year and made a lot of close friends. I quickly learned that rugby is not just a sport, it is an international community. The leader of the pack here in Xela is an American named Josh. Scooter is interviewing him right now for a personal piece, to be highlighted right here in this very blog muy pronto! Because we were hanging with Scoot, now a player on the local team, we were taken in as close friends immediately.

While the sport itself was unknown to Guatemala until relatively recently, a good amount of the local youth is actively excited about it. Contact sports are not common here, but the sportsmanship and comradarie that are inherent in rugby seem to be an attraction. There is a good mix of locals and foreigners on the team, allowing a lot of interaction between cultures. When teams compete, the social circle only gets bigger. Games are followed by socials, hosted by the home team. And traveling abroad, many of the players make an effort to immediately seek out local rugby clubs because they expect to create instant connections.

Josh took us out on the town on night two. Now on night six or seven, we are finding it difficult to leave. He and his friends have offered us help in finding local employment, positions on the rugby team (even if we simply take on roles as “social players”), and free t-shirts. T-shirts may not seem like a big deal, but they are blessing to travelers who began the trip with only one packed. We now feel comfortable partaking in the regular hand slap into the pound, drinking Cabro instead of Gallo, and speaking fluent Spanglish to everyone we meet, without worry of proper translation. The point is already there… we are content being in good company.

Luckily, these gentlemen also have an appreciation for hooligans. We went to the Super Chivas´ season opener at the local stadium. As the game begins, people on the sidelines start spraying blue shit out of fire extinguishers all over the place, making it impossible to see any of the actual game for the first five minutes. The fans use this opportunity to light roman candles and sparklers in their hands without worry for what may ignite in the process or whose eyes may be burned out of their heads. Meanwhile, vendors attempt to sell peanuts, team flags, hot juice, Domino´s pizza, and Pepsi in small plastic bags with a straw sticking out. A man with no hands asks for money, but we have already given our loose change to the blind guy outside. And we can not hear anything but obscenities being chanted from the rowdiest section in the stadium, just to our left. An elderly man sits next to his grandson, egging him on as the seven year-old tells the visiting team´s goalie what he thinks of his mother. Puta, puta, puta!

Half of our gang knew all of the words to every chant, and we couldn´t help but scream along. And it all seemed to work… Xela won 2-1 in a sloppy, but well-fought contest. Somehow, the obscenities connected us all in a passionate team effort from the stands. It gave us some good laughs at least… and a shot in the local paper:

After all of this and more (no need to go into details about the tequila shots, breakfast burritos, Tank the acoustic heartbreaker, etc.), Nate and I thought we should actually go to rugby practice and give it a shot. Scooter had us set on the idea. We loved it immediately, even though the high altitudes kicked our collective three lungs´ asses. The tackling, the mauls, the scrums… it was awesome, plain and simple. Of course, because I am the most injury-prone of the group, Nate and I heard a couple pops as I went down in a group of ruffians. Every cough and sneeze leaves me with a desire to puke, and we´re pretty damn sure at least one rib is broken.

Nate, on the other hand, attacked like a madman and managed to drive another rookie off the field, scared for his life. “The bald kid is mean,” some of the players told Josh in complimentary fashion after practice. It was obvious that they were not talking about the more fragile baldy of the group. Nate found his sport his first time out, and he impressed some people in the process. That kid was like a bull in a china shop.

Thanks Scooter for introducing us to a new pasttime. Even though we´re all walking a bit bowlegged today, it was well worth it. And thanks to the Xela rugby team for making this place feel a bit more like home. I may be returning to take you up on a longer stay. Let´s hope so anyways. Good luck with your upcoming season… you have a few new fans.

-Sparky

It leaves me in a reflective mood, thinking back on all of my travel experiences.  Without going into detail of past trips, there is one aspect that deserves mention.  As it was with every other trip, we are continuously meeting amazing people at every turn.  In the past month alone, we have formed new friendships with individuals from at least fourteen different countries, spanning all of the inhabitable continents.

Meeting other travelers is easy.  We all have one thing in common: the simple fact that we are far away from home and full of a desire to explore what is unknown to us.  The initial conversations generally begin the same way.  Where are you from?  What do you do?  How long are you traveling for?  Where are you coming from?  Where are you heading?  And then, they evolve into something more personal.  Within minutes, the chuckles begin and they too grow into something more substantial.  The bond is formed, and before we know it, our social group has expanded.  We say and do things in front of each other that only our closest friends usually witness.  We need this connection.

Gaining new friends from differing cultures is a wonderful thing.  Most of us travel because we want to expand our perspective on everything around us.  What better way to do this than by conversing endlessly with people from different corners of the globe?  It´s entertaining; it´s interesting; it´s humbling beyond belief.

We are better people because of them.  We are inspired to try new things, go new places, and look at the world in a different light.  And we get to be the ambassadors for our own culture, one that is often shadowed by unfair stereotypes (what culture isn´t?).  It becomes our responsibility to show by example that not all Americans are loud, ignorant drunks, destined for return trips to Cancún for the chicks, beach, and booze.  We too come from a beautiful place that we can take pride in, full of amazing people who are doing great things.

At the breakfast table in Tulum, one of our many new Danish friends started smirking as he sipped his jugo de naranja.  As he set his glass back on the table and swatted at a fly on his arm, Daniel asked me if the mosquitoes in the US are slower than those in Mexico.  He was apparently under the impression that they are easier to swat because they will take that extra second to engorge themselves as long as possible.  This makes them fat and lazy, a far cry from the more nimble and athletic Mexican mosquito.

Of course, he was kidding.  But the stereotype does exist.  We are doing our best to break it down, one person at a time.  Luckily, most people seem more than happy to let it fade from their thoughts.  Light finds its way into the shadows.

We are also finding ways to mingle with the local yokels, and they offer more of the same.  They take pride in their homes and are often happy to share their stories.  They are all Amelie, and we are the blind men who just had an entire world opened up to us.  We get giddy talking to them and wander their homeland with wide eyes and bear-chase adrenaline.  We are grounded with heavier hearts because of their struggles, but optimistic because of their smiles.  A reminder that wealth comes in many forms.

Our five weeks in Mexico was incredible, and it was undoubtedly because of the people we met.  We are hopeful that Guatemala will bring more of the same.  To all of our new readers, thank you so much for the great conversation.  You have all affected us profoundly.  Safe travels.  We´ll be knocking on your door soon.

-Sparky

After a short colectivo ride we arrived in the Tzotzil village of San Juan Chamula.  Upon stepping out of the vehicle our senses were overloaded with the sights, sounds, and smells of the lively Sunday market.  Farmers in sheep skin ponchos and women in brightly colored woven tops and  thick black wool skirts exchanged goods with villagers and a small handful of tourists alike.  Make shift booths were filled with produce and spices and unidentifiable food stuffs.  Piles of  wool added an aroma to the air.  Used boots, polished up to look nearly new sat next to proudly displayed leather goods and hand built shoes crafted from bicycle tires.  Children ran through the aisles chasing chickens or the frequent stray dog.  Elders sat on old Fanta cases and snapped beans, conversing in a unfamiliar tongue.

We bought some vegetables and a loaf of bread and sat at the market’s edge to enjoy lunch.  A group of men were standing near us dressed in animal skin tops and gleaming white silk pants, sticks strapped to their backs in a similar fashion to how a soldier would keep his rifle.   We later discovered these men were Chamula’s version of police.  Turns out that the small village is a completely autonomous state within Chiapas and therefore no Mexican government officials, state police, or military are allowed inside town limits.  It is refreshing to see an indigenous place that has been left alone to manage their own resources and self govern.  Especially after the generations of mistreatment  by the powers that be.

As with most places we have visited, the church lies at the heart of the community, looming over the shacks and otherwise one story concrete structures.  Chamula is no exception.  A colorful church with an awkward arch sits in a large courtyard with a lone tree and is the main attraction here.  Many people come to experience the strange rituals that take place inside.

It takes a few moments for your eyes to adjust as you step in out of the bright sun.  Inside, the church is dimly lit, most of the illumination coming in flickers from the hundreds of burning candles.  The strong smell of copal resin incense mixes with the pine needles that cover the tiled floor. There are no pews, just open space and the perimeter wall is ordained with many of the Catholic saints.  Each saint, a mannequin or wooden figure is dressed in religious garb and resides in a simple shadow box hung on the wall or placed atop a table.  Most hold a mirror in their arms, meant to deflect evil spirits.

The floor is occupied by the Maya parishioners entranced in ritual.  We stood in the shadows and observed trying not to interfere or project any ‘zoo-like’ feelings for those in prayer.  One very elderly woman knelt with a Mexican family and through a translator lead the father through a healing process.  In deep concentration she prayed with the man never breaking contact with him.  They lit candles, stuck them to the floor with hot wax and then she began massaging his legs with freshly cracked eggs.

Another group performed what seemed to be some sort of baptismal rite.  Women chanting over an infant rubbing his body with candles and then lighting them.  The praying only stopped for the women to take a drink of posh, a local corn based liquor similar to whiskey.  The drink is consumed along with Coca Cola or Fresca  in many Mayan ceremonies in these parts.  The liquor’s intoxicating effect allows for expanded consciousness and the soda helps with the burping thought to release inward demons.  The child was much more interested in breast feeding and the live, bound chicken that flopped around at his mother’s side than he was in the ceremony.  Oftentimes the chickens are sacrificed in these rituals but we didn’t feel it appropriate to hang around for that spectacle.

We left feeling drained.  We sat outside the church for some time, in silence, attempting to process the full sensory experience we had just witnessed.  We made our way back through the market in search of a lift back to San Cristobal, for we only had a couple of hours before we were meeting up with some fellow travelers to watch the Superbowl.  Later that evening while we watched Arizona struggle against the Steelers defense we wondered if we would ever have a day where two more opposite worlds would collide.  I bet not.

Below is an image of the church and market that I found online.  Out of respect, we took  no pictures that day, as the Maya believe photographs steal their souls.

-Nate

At the very core of this adventure we are currently pursuing is the idea of community.  Mastatal and the Ranch there are very special places.  I would think that anyone who has been there is better for the experience.  I know I have certainly learned a great deal from my time there and from those with whom I have connected as a result.  The Ranch and the greater community that it symbiotically exists within are model examples of how I would like to define the word.  This belief was a major motivating factor for the trip and although our mode of transportation has changed, our objectives have not.

A community can only function as well as its inhabitants wish for it to.  Cooperation, love, respect, and understanding  are only a few of the many ingredients necessary for a community to thrive.  These attributes exist in so many of the people  that live in and visit Mastatal.  Having been there and seeing it work perpetuates my idealistic notions that harmony is possible.  This weekend I recieved news that harshly disrupts that utopian vision.  It knocked me down a peg and simaltaneuosly reconfirmed my stance that the planet needs many more places like that small town tucked away in the Costa Rican rainforest if we have any hope of sustaining ourselves as a productive species.

We are an accumulation of our experinces.  The communities that we exist within are vital in producing those experiences.  Luckily, I have been blessed to be part of many communities that have nourished positive experience and therefore brought me to the place where I currently am.  One such community is the Cooper School, in Seattle, which had served as much more than simply an employer.  It is a place that I hold close to my heart, a place that has taught me a great deal,  and a  place that understands the importance of true community. 

Due to budget issues the school board has decided to close the school, obviously not recognizing it for its importance.  I would like to keep this post positive and therefore have decided to not delve into the racist, classist, and unethical motivations and processes taken by the school board.  If you wish to read further, please visit the website  cooper.seattleschools.org.  The figures can speak for themselves.

But instead I would like to take this opportunity to celebrate a place that embraces education and diversity and compassion.  I want to thank the staff and faculty, the parents and concerned citizens that stood up in the past months and fought passionately for what is right.  And it pains me that Cooper will not exist as a cohesive community any longer, but I am glad that I was part of it, even for only a brief while.

And finally I implore the students to learn from this. I challenge them to get involved with their new communities.  I want them to remember that, as cliché as it sounds, the future is their’s to mold.  Be the change that you want, stay positive, push on and don´t settle.  Strive for prosperity and peace.  This is what I want the kids to take away as Cooper closes it’s doors for the last time and not the sting brought about by the school board vote, for they are fools who have lost their connection with one very important word…community.

Sometimes, I think he may be wise beyond his young twenty-four years.  The parasites and amoebas have found me again!  After one brutal night of terrible television and creating inhuman noises in the baño, I was ready to fight back.  Nate had kept me alive after a near impossible mission to find bottled water in the middle of the night, and Scooter escorted me to a medical clinic.

In times like these, how could one afford the attention of a doctor, let alone a cure for loose bowels?  The figures are staggering… it would cost me 132 pesos to rid my body completely of these little hellions.  Do the math… carry the seven… hold on… that is just under 10 American dollars?  Oh yes, healthcare is affordable in Mexico indeed!

And no worries… Nate just had a bit of traveler´s diarrhea this morning, caused by delicious cheese quesadillas.  And the rest is history.

Still, water was a bad choice.  Thanks Scoot and Nate for taking care of me again.

-Sparky