26 November, 2005
Another month, another trip to the border. And another shakedown on the return trip.
Returning from the border, where the paperwork has been completed at lightning speed. Driving down the road, glance around the corner, inhale smoke from the rusted-out pickup ahead, smooth turn of the wheel into the oncoming lane….
WOOP!
Jerk back into my lane at the sound of the siren behind. Nowhere to turn off the road – no shoulder. And with only two narrow lanes, with no way to stop in traffic. The incomprehensible collocation of vowels emanates from the loudspeaker on top of the police cruiser pickup behind me: "IAOOOOPAEELAM, UUNAMEEEEADER!"
No idea what language he is using, but the intent is clear: Pull over.
I've been here before. Once I finally encounter a place to turn off the road, I hop out, freshly printed paperwork in my left hand, and extend my right to the smiling cop who has found himself a new sucker. We talk small talk. I ask if there is a place to take a picture of the volcanoes we have been seeing on the left side of the road – play up the bumbling tourist with some command of the language.
He asked for the car paperwork. I give it to him. Driver's license? Handed over. More small talk. Other cop walks over to Kathe's side of the truck, starts asking her questions. I am asked to come back to the cruiser pickup. At this point, there was no question about what was going on. He did not want to write the ticket, because there would be no money in that for him. He wanted the money up front. And I did not want to give it to him. Sound familiar? See September 20 entry. Copy. Paste.
It was the seatbelt, this time. And while he is showing me the paperwork that demonstrates the illegality of not wearing the seatbelt (I had been wearing it until five minutes before, when we started taking pictures of the volcano – no, really), three pickup trucks full of passengers drive by at 75 miles an hour. Forget seatbelts, pickup truck beds don't have seats. But he is concerned about my safety.
My multa (fine) = 400 quetzales (roughly $50).
"And where do I have to pay this fine?"
"Guatemala City."
"Ahhh, the capital. Exactly where in the capital?"
"Zone 11."
"Isn't that a dangerous area?"
"Yeah, parts of it are pretty bad."
"So let me get this straight. You are protecting me by sending me to the capital where it is dangerous."
Suddenly the talk turned to how he wanted to offer me a hand (presumably with the hopes of taking it back full of cash) by not making me go to the capital.
In the meantime, Kathe was having a different conversation.
"So, you guys are from the US, huh? I really want to illegally migrate there and join my three brothers. And as far as this job goes, I really don't even like hurting the bad guys."
Amateurs. Mexican police could teach them a thing or two about bribes.
So I offered to buy my cop a coke. He followed us to the nearest convenience store, where I bought myself a coke, some cookies and a candy bar, and left the Q50 note on the counter for the police to help themselves to a coke or two. And to my change.
And the most beautiful moment of all was as we were taking our leave at the convenience store, when Kathe shook the hand of the cop, offered a 'thank you' and then asked, "And what is your name again?" What followed was quite a soft shoe shuffle. Gerson had the good sense to appear bashful about the whole thing…
Yep, when I am able to get bored with a police shakedown, it is time to go home. For the past few weeks I have found it increasingly difficult to write the journal, partly because I have developed a routine with analysis that is not terribly exciting and partly because I don't interact with people quite as much now.
Primarily, however, I find it hard to write about a place that has become home.
Anthropologists often find that the first experiences in the field are the most intense. The descriptions of a new cultural experience are vivid because everything is new and different, and every detail imprints itself indelibly on the mind. At the risk of sounding terribly po-mo, the feeling of "otherness" is strongest when you are first introduced to the new scene.
As you become more accustomed to your surroundings, everything takes its place within a cultural framework, and it is no longer astounding that the lines to the banks on Friday nights run for hundreds of meters as people wait to cash their checks. It no longer seems amazing that women sell hand-woven table runners for a dollar on the street corner, or that fireworks explode outside our window at 4:30 am (irritating, yes; amazing, no). The beauty of nature around me is still stunning. The beauty of the people no less so. Architecturally, the city continues to be impressive, and I find new things to like about it all the time. But very little creates quite a sense of awe and wonder.
And when that sense of wonder is gone, it is definitely time for a change of scenery. As my mom said, most of the time, when you put in that much effort for nine months, you at least have a baby to take home at the end of it.
My baby is still in the oven. And there will be many more months before that dissertation has completed its gestation cycle.
So I am ready to go home. So I suppose that it is a good thing that my ticket is for Tuesday. Kathe and I will carry our suitcases to the cab, shake the dust out of our hair, and, remembering Lot's wife, will not look back.
Completely untrue. We will always look back to this time. The people here are wonderful. From Gilberto and Anamaria, our lovely friends here in Jeanne's house, to Vilma and Francis who sell us coffee on the corner, to Helmut, the upper-class travel agent we have made friends with, to Maribel, the chipmunk-cheeked Salvadoran waitress at one of our local breakfast places, our lives are richer for having spent the time here. It has been no picnic – I have never before had insomnia, and the stresses of living here, when there are so many problems at home, combined with considerable financial and academic stress, have yielded a very unhealthy dose of regular sleeplessness. Add to that a serious dose of survivor's guilt from Katrina, well…. But no matter what stresses are involved, I am always happier with my wife by my side than without her. So the disaster of Katrina had a decidedly positive side; Kathe and I have spent two months together here in Antigua, rather than apart.
And I will be coming back shortly after the new year (I have to, in order to avoid having problems with the car, and there IS a lot of analysis still pending), so I will return. And will return with a different perspective, and serious ganas to complete my job here. For all of the rugged physical beauty of the volcanoes and the delicious weather, it s truly the friends we have made here that has made it a special place in our hearts.
In the meantime, there is a lot to do. We have been trying to pack and organize things so that 1) we will be allowed on the plane on Tuesday, and 2) the clutter is minimalized when Jeanne arrives at her house. That involves a packing lot of boxes of lithics, more boxes of equipment, bags of textiles, a hand-carved Virgin (lovingly crafted by Don Gilberto as a gift for Kathe), copies of project data and books.
One thing I am truly sorry to miss is the Christmas season here. Beginning with the burning of the devil, which will happen early next month, to the New Year's celebration, the month of December is, by all accounts, pretty spectacular. Probably enough to inspire wonder in even the most jaded of graduate students.
But we are off, come Tuesday, to SC, where we will visit briefly with family, before returning to New Orleans to see what wonders our fridge has in store for us (next week, on the upcoming TV series Recombinant DNA Goes Wild!) and how high grass can climb in absence of regular trimming. Add some Clorox with a side of ammonia, and we'll be ready for some serious cleaning. And, as always, have machete, will travel.
I hope your Thanksgiving was a delghtful (and delicious) one, and that time was well spent with family and friends.
Best,
Crorey
Another month, another trip to the border. And another shakedown on the return trip.
Returning from the border, where the paperwork has been completed at lightning speed. Driving down the road, glance around the corner, inhale smoke from the rusted-out pickup ahead, smooth turn of the wheel into the oncoming lane….
WOOP!
Jerk back into my lane at the sound of the siren behind. Nowhere to turn off the road – no shoulder. And with only two narrow lanes, with no way to stop in traffic. The incomprehensible collocation of vowels emanates from the loudspeaker on top of the police cruiser pickup behind me: "IAOOOOPAEELAM, UUNAMEEEEADER!"
No idea what language he is using, but the intent is clear: Pull over.
I've been here before. Once I finally encounter a place to turn off the road, I hop out, freshly printed paperwork in my left hand, and extend my right to the smiling cop who has found himself a new sucker. We talk small talk. I ask if there is a place to take a picture of the volcanoes we have been seeing on the left side of the road – play up the bumbling tourist with some command of the language.
He asked for the car paperwork. I give it to him. Driver's license? Handed over. More small talk. Other cop walks over to Kathe's side of the truck, starts asking her questions. I am asked to come back to the cruiser pickup. At this point, there was no question about what was going on. He did not want to write the ticket, because there would be no money in that for him. He wanted the money up front. And I did not want to give it to him. Sound familiar? See September 20 entry. Copy. Paste.
It was the seatbelt, this time. And while he is showing me the paperwork that demonstrates the illegality of not wearing the seatbelt (I had been wearing it until five minutes before, when we started taking pictures of the volcano – no, really), three pickup trucks full of passengers drive by at 75 miles an hour. Forget seatbelts, pickup truck beds don't have seats. But he is concerned about my safety.
My multa (fine) = 400 quetzales (roughly $50).
"And where do I have to pay this fine?"
"Guatemala City."
"Ahhh, the capital. Exactly where in the capital?"
"Zone 11."
"Isn't that a dangerous area?"
"Yeah, parts of it are pretty bad."
"So let me get this straight. You are protecting me by sending me to the capital where it is dangerous."
Suddenly the talk turned to how he wanted to offer me a hand (presumably with the hopes of taking it back full of cash) by not making me go to the capital.
In the meantime, Kathe was having a different conversation.
"So, you guys are from the US, huh? I really want to illegally migrate there and join my three brothers. And as far as this job goes, I really don't even like hurting the bad guys."
Amateurs. Mexican police could teach them a thing or two about bribes.
So I offered to buy my cop a coke. He followed us to the nearest convenience store, where I bought myself a coke, some cookies and a candy bar, and left the Q50 note on the counter for the police to help themselves to a coke or two. And to my change.
And the most beautiful moment of all was as we were taking our leave at the convenience store, when Kathe shook the hand of the cop, offered a 'thank you' and then asked, "And what is your name again?" What followed was quite a soft shoe shuffle. Gerson had the good sense to appear bashful about the whole thing…
Yep, when I am able to get bored with a police shakedown, it is time to go home. For the past few weeks I have found it increasingly difficult to write the journal, partly because I have developed a routine with analysis that is not terribly exciting and partly because I don't interact with people quite as much now.
Primarily, however, I find it hard to write about a place that has become home.
Anthropologists often find that the first experiences in the field are the most intense. The descriptions of a new cultural experience are vivid because everything is new and different, and every detail imprints itself indelibly on the mind. At the risk of sounding terribly po-mo, the feeling of "otherness" is strongest when you are first introduced to the new scene.
As you become more accustomed to your surroundings, everything takes its place within a cultural framework, and it is no longer astounding that the lines to the banks on Friday nights run for hundreds of meters as people wait to cash their checks. It no longer seems amazing that women sell hand-woven table runners for a dollar on the street corner, or that fireworks explode outside our window at 4:30 am (irritating, yes; amazing, no). The beauty of nature around me is still stunning. The beauty of the people no less so. Architecturally, the city continues to be impressive, and I find new things to like about it all the time. But very little creates quite a sense of awe and wonder.
And when that sense of wonder is gone, it is definitely time for a change of scenery. As my mom said, most of the time, when you put in that much effort for nine months, you at least have a baby to take home at the end of it.
My baby is still in the oven. And there will be many more months before that dissertation has completed its gestation cycle.
So I am ready to go home. So I suppose that it is a good thing that my ticket is for Tuesday. Kathe and I will carry our suitcases to the cab, shake the dust out of our hair, and, remembering Lot's wife, will not look back.
Completely untrue. We will always look back to this time. The people here are wonderful. From Gilberto and Anamaria, our lovely friends here in Jeanne's house, to Vilma and Francis who sell us coffee on the corner, to Helmut, the upper-class travel agent we have made friends with, to Maribel, the chipmunk-cheeked Salvadoran waitress at one of our local breakfast places, our lives are richer for having spent the time here. It has been no picnic – I have never before had insomnia, and the stresses of living here, when there are so many problems at home, combined with considerable financial and academic stress, have yielded a very unhealthy dose of regular sleeplessness. Add to that a serious dose of survivor's guilt from Katrina, well…. But no matter what stresses are involved, I am always happier with my wife by my side than without her. So the disaster of Katrina had a decidedly positive side; Kathe and I have spent two months together here in Antigua, rather than apart.
And I will be coming back shortly after the new year (I have to, in order to avoid having problems with the car, and there IS a lot of analysis still pending), so I will return. And will return with a different perspective, and serious ganas to complete my job here. For all of the rugged physical beauty of the volcanoes and the delicious weather, it s truly the friends we have made here that has made it a special place in our hearts.
In the meantime, there is a lot to do. We have been trying to pack and organize things so that 1) we will be allowed on the plane on Tuesday, and 2) the clutter is minimalized when Jeanne arrives at her house. That involves a packing lot of boxes of lithics, more boxes of equipment, bags of textiles, a hand-carved Virgin (lovingly crafted by Don Gilberto as a gift for Kathe), copies of project data and books.
One thing I am truly sorry to miss is the Christmas season here. Beginning with the burning of the devil, which will happen early next month, to the New Year's celebration, the month of December is, by all accounts, pretty spectacular. Probably enough to inspire wonder in even the most jaded of graduate students.
But we are off, come Tuesday, to SC, where we will visit briefly with family, before returning to New Orleans to see what wonders our fridge has in store for us (next week, on the upcoming TV series Recombinant DNA Goes Wild!) and how high grass can climb in absence of regular trimming. Add some Clorox with a side of ammonia, and we'll be ready for some serious cleaning. And, as always, have machete, will travel.
I hope your Thanksgiving was a delghtful (and delicious) one, and that time was well spent with family and friends.
Best,
Crorey
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