Fijese, and Mira

8 April 2006

"Keep your head up."  Remi, my grandson, was learning to ride his bicycle, and it wasn't going well.   It wasn't so much the mechanics of it that were giving him trouble.   Instead, it was the fact that he was watching his feet, making sure they were doing the thing they were supposed to do.   It was still a new experience, and he just wanted to make sure.

Because he was looking down at the place where he was, he was weaving all over the place and falling down.  A lot.  As a result, he was angry and frustrated and hurt.

My mom, in her wisdom, did not try to address the symptom of weaving on the bicycle, but went right to diagnose the problem. "Remi, keep your head up.   Look at where you are going."

Sure enough, when he tore his eyes off of his feet, he saw his ride in a different perspective.   By keeping his eyes on the place he wanted to go, he achieved a sense of balance that he couldn't get when he was focusing on the mechanics of pedaling.    And, instead of seeing the act of riding a bike with embarrassment, pain and frustration, it was suddenly a source of joy.

I wish I were more like my mom.  Instead, I am much more like Remi.   For so long now I have been pedaling through this dissertation research, focusing only on what my feet are doing.   I was unwilling to look up, afraid that my current step would be wrong.

And, honestly, some of what I do is a lot more like rock climbing than riding a bicycle.   Having your eye only on the prize is going to get you killed – you have to look where you are putting your feet.    But I have also spent way too much time looking at my feet, and it has made me weave from one part of my dissertation to the other.   And I was not enjoying it much.  The intense fieldwork you do as part of the dissertation is supposed to memorable and something you look back on with fondness, and it has mostly been a source of stress and pain.

But after a week of doing the experimental archaeology, I am jazzed about the research and looking around at the work I have done, seeing it in a larger perspective.   And now that I have looked up, I have more balance, and I don't wobble so much.  And I can actually enjoy the process a little.

It is not without its stresses.  I have been taking video of what we are doing, and invariably, the axe head that Arturo is using falls out of the haft in the video.   The hafting of the axes has been a sore point all along.  And I had hoped that my forest-wise assistants would help me find the way to haft them successfully.   Instead, they offer suggestions as to how to modify the shape of the tool to make it more easily hafted.  Like notches.

Great idea, except that the form I am copying does not have a notch.

So we tighten up the rawhide and the leather and give the wood another 50 whacks before the axe head falls off.   Again.  And we retrieve it, and rebind it, and go back to work. Again.  And we laugh about it a little.   It is all about perspective.  And keeping your head up.

One perspective was pretty funny this week.  One of the experiments I am doing is digging with what looks like a really small hoe; you can dig with it like you would a one-handed pick or hoe.   Paco is digging beside the house, when he says "Another axe!

As soon as I finish the hide hair scraping experiment, I walk over, thinking that he needs another axe because his has broken.   But no, he has found another axe in the place he was digging. Not a total shock, considering that we are very close to the edge of the site of La Estrella, but amusing, nonetheless.   Use an axe to find an axe…

The other funny thing that happened with the axes was that, because they kept falling out of the haft when bound with leather, we bound them with pieces of the rawhide from the goat.   The thing about rawhide is that it is pliable when wet, but shrinks when it dries.  So anything tied with wet rawhide becomes much tighter as it dries.   Perfect.  We left two of them in the sun to dry.

And drove down the road to find fish for the next experiment.  When we came back, there was a chert axe lying on the ground next to the haft.   No rawhide.  The second axe was nowhere to be found.  A dog had apparently found a rawhide chew toy, eaten it, and started on the second one when somebody came by, and the dog decided to eat his prize somewhere else.

We never found it.  I never would have considered dogs to be part of the lithic tool formation process, but somewhere in the village is an axe that I worked hard to make, a haft that Arturo worked harder on, and a strip of rawhide in the belly of a very self-satisfied dog.   That dog definitely keeps his head up…

Dog troubles continued until the last day.  I had set up one of the experiments to carve art into the surface of long bones.   And, since I happened to have a ready supply of goat leg bones, I figured, what the heck.  I gave each of my main three informants one leg bone each, with the instruction to carve something into it.   One took the site guide for Motul and carved a pretty elaborate, if somewhat crude rendering of a figure from a polychrome vessel represented on the cover.   Another carved pseudoglyphs from the same brochure.   Ticho was not interested in doing art, so I suggested he make a bone rasp, where you cut a series of v-shaped grooves into the bone, and rub another stick along the length of the diaphysis.

As was the case with so many of the other experiments, the guys really got into the process.   Especially Ticho, charged with carving the bone rasp.   At the end of the day on Tuesday, he lacked an hour's work to finish his musical instrument.

And so we put them away, inside the house.  Away from anything that looked like it might be dog-accessible.

Wednesday morning they were gone.

At some point during the night a (very brave) neighborhood dog walked into the house, right past my hammock, and carried off all three bones, located in three different spots around the house.

And all day Wednesday, random dogs, having communicated by d-mail, came by and stood at the entrance to the house, sniffed, and cast a glance my way.   You could totally see them weighing the opportunity cost.  Getting hit with a rock versus eating a bone.  Maybe getting hit with a rock, versus the possibility of eating a bone.   Not getting hit with the rock, no possibility of getting a bone.  And, one at a time, they would check the ready accessibility of pretty sharp rocks to the gringo on the porch and decide to look for easier meat elsewhere.

Fortunately, I only lost the art, and not the flakes associated with the art.   Fortunately, since that is what I was after.   And I have a couple of photos (although not of the rasp), so all is not lost.  But dang it, that was one of the coolest parts of the project.   And what is the point of consigning art if you don't get to keep it?

We did finish the drum, and it worked like a charm.  Really nice to hear the marimba player in the group tap out a tattoo on a three-toned instrument.   It was a nice way to end the experiments.  Although it is far too large for me to ship back, so I am giving it to Arturo, along with the other unfinished one.

So I spent a lot of money and a week and a half of my life chipping, cutting, scraping, butchering, carving, drilling, digging and planting.  And it was quite possibly the best money I have spent yet for the research.  Certainly the most enjoyable.

In other news, I failed to sell my car this week.  Yes, that is right.   The guys at the used car dealership didn't even ask what the price was – it was a simple case of not being interested.   Carlos and I tried a couple of places that take stolen cars across the border from the US, drive them down here, and then sell them after sanitizing them and faking some paperwork.   And they simply did not want the car.

I suspect that the truth is that they cannot find that model of Chevy Blazer in a junkyard, and would have a hard time finding an appropriate VIN to solder off of the old vehicle to place on the new one.   Easier to do with a local model like a Toyota.  And the fact that the sale is legit means that they would have to pay the taxes like any other car importer, something they want to avoid at all costs.

So I will take it to the border shortly after I arrive in Antigua, and will take a friend with me, to whom I will be donating the car when I leave.   Minimally, he can sell it to a junkyard for parts, and make a small profit off of it.  And maybe, just maybe, he will find a loophole that will let him own the car.   And since it was a gift to me from my loving sister-in-law (thanks again, Patty!), I feel pretty good about spreading the love around.   It has been a good car; I hope it will continue to be so for a new owner.

In the meantime, I have some things to straighten out.  I have the inventory of tools and flakes that I want to export to the US so that I can do my use-wear experiments.   I have the letter written, asking permission to export them.   And I have a letter, asking permission to move the items to the capital.

What I don't have is permission to remove the artifacts from the lab.

So I went to talk to Miguelito, who had gone with me to do the work at La Estrella.   He said, "Sure!  We'll take care of that for you.   But one question:  When are you going to finish the work at La Estrella?"

I babbled.  I am done with the site, and don't want to undertake more excavations there, especially not in the final week.   I hemmed.  I hawed.  I obfuscated.  I prattled.

He continued, "The reason I ask is that the owner is looking to sell the land, and wants us to complete the excavations before he sells it."

BS.  The bastard wants us to loot his site and turn over the stuff to him before he turns the keys over to the next owner.

After a brief discussion with Antonia, I called Miguel back.   "Look," I said.  I don't have any real problems with him stating who gets to work.   That is fine.  I don't like that the police are not allowed to back me up, but that is fine, too.  It really chaps some very tender parts of my anatomy to see in print that he is not responsible for the looting on the site, but I can even swallow that.   But,"  I finished, "to turn over artifacts to the owner of the site is not only dumb and irresponsible, it is also illegal, and I cannot do that.   Until that paper is changed, I can't do the work."

Whew.  Two present progressives, three subjunctives, five additional multiple verb constructions, and I am pretty sure that there was a split ergative and a genitive or dative in there somewhere.   I was proud of the oration, especially that part where I start with "Mira."

I am stealing from a friend when I talk about this.  Conard Hamilton explained to me that all negotiations in Salvador go through three phases.   There is the "fíjese" phase, roughly equivalent to the phrase "see here".   It commands attention, and the subsequent discourse expounds on the nature of the problem we are facing.   It is countered with the next phase of negotiations, the "si, pero" (or "yes, but") phase.  During this phase, additional options are explored in response to the original problems.   The final stage is the end game.   The "Mira" phase ends negotiations.  So you could imagine a bureaucratic interaction:

"Here are my signed forms in triplicate, with the seal and signature of the governor on each one."

Bureaucrat shuffles through the papers, squints at each in turn, and then looks up, preparing for the fíjese.   "See here," he says.   "We have a problem because the law requires that each page also be initialed by the governor, so that we can be sure he has read each page."

But you are ready with the si, pero.  "Yes, but," you counter, "I have a signed statement from you, dated last week, that states specifically that the governor only need sign.   There is no mention of initialing."

"See, here," the bureaucrat says, with the temerity that goes with his position, "the new rules have been in place for months now.   The governor has to initial each page."

"Yes, but there is no way to do that.  The governor is on a junket to Paris for the next three months, and I need this now.   Besides, if that is the rule, why is there no paperwork posted to that effect?"

His hand falls on the only surviving copy of a document prominently displayed underneath a teetering stack of papers on the edge of his desk.   He pulls it out.  Sure enough, the paper states very clearly that, effective immediately, the governor must not only sign the document, but also initial each page of the document, as well.   "Mira," he says.  Look.  "There is nothing I can do.  Next in line, please."

The only trump over a Mira, according to Conard, is to play the "my brother-in-law is the ambassador" card.   I maintain that the brother-in-law to the ambassador does not have to meet with mid-level bureaucrats, cut his point is well taken.   Unfortunately, my brother-in-law, although a swell guy, holds no particular sway here.

When talking to Miguel, however, I found out that the gringo impression of this game is amazingly shallow.   I thought that by jumping to the endgame card, Miguel's turn was over.   How little I know about the game.  "Amateur," he must have thought.

"The letter has already been changed."

Huhn?

"The letter that says that I have to turn over to the landowner any artifacts other than chert or ceramics that I find – you had that changed?"

"Yep."

I wonder when they were going to tell me.

I went over to the office, at the end of a very stressful Friday, to get a copy of the letter.   Miguelito gave me the letter (a two-sentence internal memo outlining that the original document was incorrect, and that it should have read thus:...) and introduced me to the guy in charge of archaeology in all of Guatemala, Lic. Salvador.   So we started talking about when I can start.

Now, friends, my timetable had just shifted a little.  I was originally planning on waiting to help Matt move the artifacts to Nueva San José after the middle of the month.   It is a miserable task, doubly so if you are organizing it all by yourself.   But it turns out that he is going to get the guys from NSJ to do it for him after he is gone.  So I do not have to stick around, and I can head to Antigua as soon as I get the permit to move the artifacts.    I was thinking about next Thursday, which would put me in Antigua for the last couple of days of Holy Week, something not to be missed.

And somehow, that went badly agley.  I am now doing rescate work (and paying for it) at La Estrella on Wednesday.  All so that the landowner can get his loot before the sale.

"Does Don Diablo know about this paper?" I ask Miguelito, all innocence and light.

Of course not (this is the equivalent of the bureaucrat pulling the document out of the pile to show the new law) .  DD still thinks he has hoodwinked us, and that he will be the, ahem, caretaker of all important finds we come across.   There will be a huge fight (and me without police backing) when I remove the jade head from his property and give it to the Guatemalan government.  Thanks, Salvador, for all your help.   Can you sign my export permit?

Mira.

Turning Chert into Gold

16 April 2006

Is the gringo learning how to negotiate the bureaucracy?

Not likely. But I may be making headway. The inventory was submitted, along with the letter requesting permission to move the artifacts. And, of course, a letter to request a letter stating that the letter had been submitted.

Which is what I had done all along – this is standard operating procedure. What made this time different was that I learned the value of incentive. In private enterprise, incentive works well. In a bureaucracy, it is simply difficult to provide an "incentive" without making it seem like a bribe. I know, I know; I am in Guatemala. Bribes are viewed differently here. But the trick, as I understand it now, is to make the person on your end of the bureaucracy want to make things happen. And I figured out how.

I have to have an IDAEH official accompany me on the trip. These trips are very serious business, where the person accompanying the artifacts is charged with making sure that there are no problems with getting artifacts from one place to another. If the police stop the driver, there has to be a good reason for a gringo to be carrying around a quarter ton of artifacts. The IDAEH rep, along with the official paper, acts as a get-out-of-jail-free card. The truth is, the IDAEH rep gets a per diem paid by the archaeologist, paid hotel and food, and a free trip to the capital for a couple of days.

But nobody wants to travel on Maundy Thursday. That is vacation time. And nobody wants to work on their day off. But Thursday was my day for leaving. That would put me in Antigua for Good Friday, and I would get to see all the solemn beauty and pageantry of the processions. And I could get a good jump on the last bit of analysis I have to do in Guatemala before heading to Puerto Rico, as well as a nice, quiet place to write my paper. I sell Miguelito on the idea. He does not get to go to the capital very often on these trips – usually that privilege goes to someone more senior. And he was reluctant to leave on his day off until I mentioned the processions. Suddenly, he might be able to talk the Licenciado into allowing us to go on Thursday.

The first try was unsuccessful. Lic. Salvador says plainly: the offices are not open on Thursday, so we can't accept delivery of artifacts being transported on Thursday. Miguelito shrugged as he hung up. I mentioned that we were going to the lithics lab in Antigua, and that the artifacts would be held there until Monday, when I would drive them in. Miguel brightened, and tried again.

Sweet success.  Salvador agreed to our proposal.

Twenty minutes later, the paperwork had started down the line, and Salvador's secretary called Antonia. "The offices are not open on Thursday, and we can't accept delivery of artifacts being transported on Thursday."

Antonia came down to tell me the bad news. I called Miguel, and told him to work it out with the secretary. He now has incentive. And I honestly believe it will get done. I pay his per diem, but since I am driving, I don't have to pay a round trip bus fare.

And, of course, the final answer was: mira.

The Licenciado either changed his mind without telling me or just didn't sign the paperwork before leaving for the week (also neglecting to explain anything to the secretary). And we were back to being told the original story: the offices are not open on Thursday, so you have to wait. Until the following Tuesday, because Monday is the first day we can send the paperwork through.

In the meantime, we excavated at La Estrella (see attached photos). The excavations were a dream. And every time I have that dream, I wake up in a cold sweat, and spend the next hour rocking back and forth and moaning. The owner and his son and daughter spent their day making life unpleasant. The paper we signed said only 50 cm. You have gone further than that. You are working too long. What, are you keeping gringo hours? Here, we keep Guatemalan hours, because we are Guatemalans. You are a gringo. (Really?  Oh, no!  When did that happen?   Look at my arms – oh, man, my mom is going to kill me.  She always said that this kind of work would make me turn pale…)

Add their unpleasantness to the only rain we have seen in the last two months, and 100 degree heat, and it makes for a pretty unpleasant day.

At least I started the day off with a nice barb. "You know, Miguelito," I said nonchalantly, but loud enough for everyone to hear, "the real reason I am interested in this at all is because a scientist friend of mine at the university developed a process for turning chert into gold."

All eyes swiveled over to me. It took even Miguelito a three-count to catch on. "You sounded so serious, it took me a moment to figure out that you were joking," he later admitted.

And there was lots of chert. If I were an alchemist, and could turn chert to gold, funding would never again be a problem (although worldwide depressed gold prices would be). We dug down less than a meter in a 1x2 meter unit – about the size of a grave – and came away with 33 gunny sacks full of chert.

That's right. 33 sacks of lithic debris. Each weighing between 60 and 120 pounds each. It took three trips in my car to carry all the material to the storage shed where we are keeping the stuff until it is ready to be analyzed.

Logistical problems abounded throughout the day. The sharpie pens did not work in the rain, so we had to figure out how to keep track of all the material with minimal writing on the bags. We ran out of smaller bags for the other artifacts, so we made do with plastic ones, which meant that we had to transfer everything the next day to keep from rotting out the artifacts inside.

And it took a thirteen-hour day to finish it all up, take soil samples, and backfill.

But now it is done. I have the map pending and a little bit of work writing up the results, but I am basically done with the salvage work at the site. There are, of course, many more questions now that there is a little bit of information. Who controlled the site? Where did tools manufactured there end up? Was it a short occupation, as the results of our digs seem to indicate, or were there others of the deposits with more time depth? Did these guys get chert from anywhere else, or just from that source? Was the area residential, or was this just the job site? Are they getting goods for the production, or is this simply part of the service to the lord?

One of the fascinating things about what we have excavated is how many pieces of really pretty pottery we found mixed in with the lithics. It is not the quantity, so much, as it is the proportion of nice vessels (well, OK, pieces of what were once nice vessels). At one point Antonia asked me "So what did you do? Throw away all the ugly sherds?"

And it is true. There are nice, painted pieces. There was even a beautiful carved sherd with a glyph on it. And almost nothing that looked like everyday cookware. So we now have more questions. What are they celebrating? Is it one event, or is it more like an annual party among the flintknappers? Are these pieces the same as we are finding in the capital, or does it belong to a different set?

The really cool questions are the ones I can get at with chemical analysis (maybe…). The tools that were manufactured at La Estrella, who got them? The local availability of chert (all across the Petén) makes it a very localized commodity. Getting axes from a long-distance exchange network when there is chert literally under your feet would be about like a building supply business owner getting his lumber from Home Depot. In another state. It is simply silly. So the local economy relies on the production of these axes from nearby. And the inhabitants of La Estrella provide them. But to whom? Are they trading them directly with places like Trinidad and Motul? Or are they giving them to the lord of the realm, who is passing them out to the peasants during planting time?

All of the answers to the questions I have will require more money, more time, and more patience in dealing with landowners, none of which I have in excess.

At least my final trip to the border went well. Friday I started out before 5 am; after getting my paperwork processed, I was able to leave by 7:30. That beats my record for the fastest border trip ever. I rewarded myself on the way back with a side trip to an archaeological site just off the road called Holtun.

The site was beautiful. The stucco mask on the front of the principal structure was nice, and the structures all over were interesting (including a ball court and some really nice palace structures). But the real beauty was in the jungle. High canopy, little underbrush, beautiful surroundings. The two groups of howler monkeys welcomed the two of us (a guy who lives nearby walked around the site with me) to the site. There were edible mushrooms on the path, as well as fruits and nuts that Teca shared with me. As he said, "If anyone is dying from hunger in the Petén, it is because he wants to!" And on that day, it certainly seemed that way. Food abounds in the forest, if you know what is OK to eat.

Looting is the one down side to the site.  There was not a single structure that had not been trenched, and some of them had been undoubtedly as productive as the lovely pit Don Diablo Tesucun put into his land at La Estrella.   It is really sad to see such beauty sacked by people who see looting as an easier way to make a living than farming.

Teca and I went back to the road after I was done looking at the site, and he showed me the modest artisan workshop his dad keeps, and the orchids that surround the shop (parasites, he called them). And then took me over to meet his granddad.

Pedro was wonderful.  The old man still stood upright, with steel gray hair shoved under a baseball cap. He moved carefully, but without apparent pain, as he negotiated the way around his yard. He showed me the stingless bee hives I had come to look at, as well as where the monkeys came to hang out in the afternoons when the sun was hot. And the best part of all was that he shared some of the honey from his hives, and it was the best I have ever tasted.

The stingless bees are a bit of an abiding passion with me. I am fascinated by the native apiculture that took place in prehispanic times, and I have taken a bunch of notes from informants in different areas. But this was the first time that someone actually had the honey that I could try. At about $30 per quart, it is the most expensive honey you can find, because the bees from one hive only produce about that much each year. And the honey is rumored to have medicinal qualities. We talked bees and beekeeping for a while, I finished off the plate of honey he had given me, and I took my leave.

And I took something else with me. For the past week, I have fought the local and federal bureaucracy. I have fought landowners. I have fought crowds around my apartment. I have fought pretty much nonstop. And it seemed to me that there was nothing else here in Guatemala than one fight after another. And talking to Teca's grandfather, I was able to remember what it was that attracts me to the area. The people in the villages can be xenophobic. They can be unfriendly. But they can also be more hospitable than southerners, and every bit as gracious. They can welcome you into their homes and share the very last of what they have with you, without ever thinking of what you will give them. They can give freely of their time, because they genuinely enjoy having the company.

And taking that with me was perhaps the most important event of the week.

Circling Ants

Before I left Peten (I am writing this from Antigua), I sat and talked to Papatulo for a while.  Well, he did the talking, and I tried to pay attention.  What kept me from doing that was not the topic of conversation, but rather the ant.

See, an ant had found  its way to Papatulo's t-shirt collar, and was walking around the circumference of his neck about twice a minute.  No real progress, just the impression of progress.  Over and over.

What Papatulo was saying was important, and I was not the only one listening, and it would have been gauche of me to flick off the offending insect.  So I tried to pay attention and watched the ant do lap after lap around Don Jorge's neck.

Guess who has been playing the part of that ant for the past week?

After waiting in Peten for a week, sitting and organizing and trying to make time move faster, Miguelito and I finally hit the road to Guatemala.  At the outset of the trip, however, he put his finger on the one thing that was going to trip us up.

"The paperwork says," he intoned, "that the artifacts are going straight to the Office of Monuments in the capital."

We talked about the possibilities for a while.  I laid out that I would do whatever Miguelito said, but that I would rather get into Antigua after our 8 hour drive, take a shower and relax a little, put together the other box of artifacts being shipped out, and then go into the capital a little more calmly.  We left it that we would call the boss in the capital as soon as we got into range.

We got into range, and told Gustavo that we would be getting to the capital around 6, that we were stuck in traffic, and that we would just go into Antigua and bring the artifacts another day.

He said he would wait for us - that we should bring them straight in.

Miguelito and I talked about our options, one of which involved going straight to Antigua anyway, and then calling very late and saying we would not be able to make it.  But finally we caved, and decided to drive on over to Monumentos and do what was requested.

An hour later, we were involved in one of the worst examples of being thoroughly lost that I have ever experienced.  We were close - we had found Zone 1 (not the safest place in the capital) and we were ticking down the avenues that would lead us to 12th.

After vulturing for a half hour, returning to the same spot over and over as we repeatedly circled the t-shirt collar of Zone 1, we asked for directions.

We received wild hand gestures, each sending us in opposite directions.  Which led me to add a new rule in my rulebook for surviving Latin America:

Rule #46: When in an urban area with numerous one-way streets, NEVER ask directions from a pedestrian.

Three episodes of chicken-entrails divination later, we arrived at the IDAEH offices, unloaded the boxes, and drove the extra hour to Antigua, where we arrived hungry, sore, tired, sweaty and very dirty.  But we arrived.

After Miguelito left early the next morning, I started the process of requesting permission to export the artifacts I needed to study for my use-wear analysis.  In terms of the total collection, it is not much - a mere eight boxes out of a total of about 150 - but those boxes are full of rocks, so the weight becomes an issue.

But the guys at DHL were really nice, and talked to me about the issues.  At their recommendation, I bought heavy plastic boxes to use instead of the wooden tomato crates I had originally placed them in (current US import laws require that all wood being brought into the country be treated - at a price of $15 per box; new plastic boxes cost ~$10 each).

The only real snag, as far as we can tell, is that DHL needs a copy of the export permit before they can give me a firm flight number and time for arrival and departure.

And IDAEH needs the flight information before they can issue the export permit.  I suggest that the two communicate, and leave me out of it.  But, of course, the IDAEH guy is not in the office, and won't be for hours.

And away this ant goes, around a bureaucratic collar.

After settling some difficulties, the guy at DHL made a really awful phone call.  According to the guy in charge of such things, exporting cargo this requires an exporter's license, along with a copy of the receipt I got when I purchased them.  Yeah, like I am going to buy rocks to export.

So the whole thing gets revised, and the current quote for shipping goes from $700 to over $1500.  And for a guy who has been out of work for a year and a half, that really hits hard.  I am looking into some other options, but they seem unlikely to pan out.

As for the humorous bit for the week, on the trip, Miguelito and I stopped at every roadside vendor to buy some of the local delicacy, whatever it was that that pueblo produced.  At one we bought fresh-pressed cane juice, and at another, we bought fresh pineapple.  But the part I always look forward to the most on this trip was the beautiful, fat, juicy grapes that one community near the capital sells.

Miguelito asks, as we are watching her weigh out my half pound of cold grapes, "So, I am looking around, and I don't see any vines.  Where are the vineyards?"

"There aren't any," was the reply.

"What!?"  We both looked at each other in surprise.

"These grapes are imported from California."

Totally duped.  I was so tickled to be buying luscious grapes from a local family, supporting small-scale producers who sell their produce at a roadside stand.  Instead, I was buying cast-offs shipped from California to Guatemala City, and then shipped down the road to this out-of-the-way brace of roadside stands that made it look like it was local produce.  "Why here, then?" I asked.

"Because this is where the truck from the capital stops."

No matter how long I am here, it never seems to sink in that Guatemala is not a capitalist society.

I will be in Puerto Rico for the SAAs - the archaeological society meetings - a week from today, and then I head back to months of microscope work.  I can't wait to be home.  Wish me luck.