A Home Away From Home: Xela
Quetzaltenango is one part grime and grit; chipped plaster falling from old concrete buildings, coughed exhaust crowding the air. Another part mysterious beauty; strict volcanoes rise nearby, and architecture from another age. Combined with the hardworking Guatemalteco, an often studious influx of foreigners, and another part of the population strictly devoted to the firework, and we have a compelling recipe for a stewed high altitude town. As time tweaks the perspective, the comfort and beauty of this place unfolds. The foreigner is lured here with the idea of a true-to-life city, void of the costs and distractions of more intense tourist destinations, to settle in and learn spanish, or volunteer, or both. There is the sense that if we were swept away the city would take a brief stutter step and then continue on carving its path, like all the cities that lie just below the radar.
This is a normal sized young girl and a normal sized old theater, but the contrast is wonderful.
I was quick to fall for the place because of its cool mountain air and tasty coffee. Do I really need anything else? A month of Spanish study morphed into 6 weeks, and could easily stack up to much more if I had the resources to make it happen. In the Utatlan Spanish School I found a great community of like minded souls focused on learning a new language to open up the rich and diverse tapestry of Latin America. The first day of classes also had me whisked away by one of the teachers to her parents house, my new home away from home, with Bilma and Jorge (and Timmy the pooch). I was eased into the homestay by a gregarious Texan, Tom, who seemed to be the Chico Marx to Jorge’s Groucho Marx. At times an inseparable comedy duo that threw out jokes much faster than I initially could comprehend. Perhaps the greatest complement I received was from Tom who noticed that after a week I was quickly picking up much more of the jokes and dinner table banter (although still largely unable to have a retort). Timmy and I have a good bond, often the butt of jokes, but with little ability to respond and stand up for ourselves.
Another home away from home away from home, Utatlan Language School. If I am here any longer I may learn all the languages on the wall.
With the previous three months of travel in Latin America I half assumed it would be a very quick learning curve, and I would fly on down the road indistinguishable from the locals. In no time it was apparent this was an impossible goal, thus saving me the hassle of dying my hair black and taking up the short Beckham mohawk (I really wasn’t looking forward to carrying tubs of hair grease either). Initially classes began promptly at 8am, but as time and my own patience with my slow progress grew, it eased into an 8:15 start with a stretched half hour break. Never one to doubt the power of the coffee bean, I have tried desperately to see if more coffee can in fact improve one’s ability to learn a new language. This is a coffee culture. It isn’t working.
A room of one's own. Messy because it is larger than my tent and my home for 7 weeks.
I have committed many hours to watching these tatteres, stuck between the power lines, blow in the wind – one used to be a homemade kite.
I try to study in my chilly room looking northward at all the cozy houses basking in the sun, but often end up gazing at the tattered plastic bags stuck to the power lines out my window. Twice they have proven my reference point while the ground trembled beneath me; earthquakes are frequent here. When the studying hits an inevitable lull, I relocate to Cafe Baviera to take in yet more coffee. I quickly fell into a rhythm of class, lunch, studying, and some stress relieving yoga at the Yoga House. Twice I stood in the bandstands and cheered on our local soccer team, the Xelaju (Super Chivos), always following it up with a bit of makeshift Salsa at the local club (I lose track of my feet, but can fall back on swing to keep the ladies spinning). Bilma and Jorge habitually feed me three square meals a day, but occasionally to break the pattern, and to enjoy an intriguing change in company, I have dined at our local Indian restaurant. Since we have yet to acquire a good Indian restaurant in Bozeman, this one is the best I have been to in ages, maybe since New Zealand.
The package is still elusive, lost in the Guatemalan Post. But, I am relaxed and more than a little content to let things unfold as they will. Timmy will keep me company!