Guatemala: Something Sensual

“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.” ~E.E. Cummings

Rain—its gentle and fierce sound, its dusty smell, its boundless power, its necessity to life. It reminds me how sensual our world is. No other element can put me in such a state of reverie, pondering the textures of life.

There are two seasons in Guatemala: winters of rain and summers of drought. It’s winter, the mornings sunny, and the afternoon rains falling until November. And though I love the carefree and mellow sun, it’s the pensive and musing rain that makes me feel most akin to Nature.

Guatemala means “land of trees.” There could be no truer name. An emerald land, everything is green. GREEN! Dense with this iridescent shade, how the rain intensifies it all. The glistening beads of dew never really leave; the slimy moss never dries. Its winter earth is soft, damp and lush; so precious, wild, and unruly. It’s something sensual.

A rooster crows nearby. Particles of dust orbit in rays of gray sunlight. Tweeting birds hop thunderously on the echoing roof. Rainwater from the gutters splashes to the muddy ground. I know it’s still early, probably just before six o’clock, because there is no traffic to be heard and the barking dogs are yet silent. Rains from Hurricane Matthew, which hit Honduras last night, have now arrived in Guatemala. The weekend forecast is rain.

Perhaps I needed a reason to stay inside. Time to reflect and to write. But where to begin? With colorful and poetic descriptions of the land and people here, I do not mean to breeze over the difficult realities of this place. Poverty and corruption haunt these highlands. It is a laborious life. For many, it is a monotonous, immobile existence—they are bound by poverty. But the deeper questions and thoughts I have of this place are still too overwhelming to publicly confront. But an objective, vivid description of this place, right now I could more easily continue…

San Lucas lives on the edge of Lake Atitlan, in the shadow of two volcanoes. Steep, daunting, and creating a sense of awe, Volcán Atitlan and Volcán Tolimán. They are symbolic of the antiquity, beauty, and lingering danger of this place.

Like bloody claw marks scratched down the volcanoes’ southern sides, tracks of red soil and fallen trees are an eerie reminder of the violent rains and brutal mudslides. These wounds are still fresh—San Lucas still hurting—from the devastation of Hurricane Agatha that hit Guatemala’s Pacific side in late May. San Lucas suffered greatly: ten dead, hundreds of homes destroyed, roads demolished…and in a place as impoverished as this, possibly decades of development washed away.

As the morning fog drifts over the lake, a bright blue paints the morning sky. This clearing of mist and shade, and the unhindered sun, seems to illustrate the hope of this place and the vibrant faith of these people. Like the bold colors of their traditional Maya clothing, valiantly and conspicuously they wear their beliefs on their sleeves. Faith is thread throughout, powerfully manifesting itself in the daily lives of the locals.

Nearing eight o’clock, the main drag is breathing and bustling with the morning’s clamor and commotion. The cobbled streets are narrow, and lined with faded, mud-bottom buildings, with no grassy spaces in-between. Rattling pick-ups, in route to the fields with twenty-or-so campesinos hanging on in back, zigzag through the people and kiosks. If walking in the streets, for safety reasons and preventative decapitation measures, keep your arms tucked in, and your head tilted towards the buildings. Tuc-tuc’s (rickshaw-like, but motorized, taxis) honk and speed by. Club-like music blares from any speakers available: in shops, from cars, tuc-tuc’s, pick-ups, cell-phones, and headphones. This place is loud and echoing.

The market is crowded, fresh produce, spices, newspapers, and necessities for sale. Vendors sell breakfasts of black beans, bread, and fried plantains. Sickly stray dogs lounge in the sun and fight over scraps. Watch your step! Fresh droppings (“caca”) from the dogs (“chuchos”) litter the streets. Garbage scraps stick to the damp ground and moldy sidewalks.

In San Lucas, few men wear traditional clothing, but rather jeans and a t-shirt or polo, sometimes with a sombrero. However, the majority of the women wear the traditional clothing, the “traje”: a huipil and a corte (colorfully hand-woven shirt and skirt), held up by a faja (belt or sash). With her weavings and other traditional roles, the woman is believed to be the keeper of the Mayan Culture.

A baby is held on a woman’s back with a scarf tied over her chest. She holds the hand of a younger child, a shopping basket in her other hand, and a basket balanced on her head. She walks with strength and grace. The day has begun. The streets are filled with people; everybody is moving. In the town center, the color and life of these people—their sepia and amber skin, bright and detailed clothing, animated conversations, and good-natured, playful bargaining—create a spirited and rich social space.

Down the street, to the north, is Lake Atitlan. Though the runoff from surrounding pueblos is dangerously polluting the water and endangering its ecosystem, it’s still acclaimed one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. With the clearing of the morning haze, the vast waters become a clear sapphire, its ripples winking at you as they glimmer beneath the sun.

The mountain air is mild, warm and breathable. Into the early afternoon, the sun dries the farmland and laundry, and warms our faces and spirits. Then suddenly and predictably, a chilling breeze finds your neck and arms. Wispy clouds become dark and heavy, the sky ominous. The earlier crowded streets are now silent.

And the rain falls. And falls. Cascading from the sky. How deafening it is! In cycles it lets up and gets stronger. Two to three hours pass by before it becomes a stagnant mist. Now evening, life in the streets begins again.

Dusk setting, the mountains are distant dark masses. Their peaks are not rocky, but thick with bush. A scene I’ve never seen, trees silhouetted at the very top of the mountains. Nightly clouds hide the stars, but Jupiter burns brightly, floating between the two looming volcanoes. The shouts and noise of night rising, San Lucas is yet to be awake until the first hours of tomorrow. But unfortunately, with nightfall lingers danger, and I have to say, “Good night.”

http://www.sanlucasmission.org/