A Broken Heart

If you were to open me up, splay me out on a table or something of the like, I’m sure there you would find my heart, torn in two, broken through in a messy zig-zag pattern. It wouldn’t be anything like the cheesy romantic pictures with their bright colors and clean lines. You’d find my heart strained, ripped and stringy, trying desperately to cling to itself once again.

The truth is, half of my heart will stay here in Guatemala. It will stay in Hermano Pedro, with my friends in Sumpango, my leaders in SI, the places I’ve visited, and the man who plays the harmonica outside of the tienda. It will stay in the cool breeze under the heavy sun, which moves the palm trees and shuffles the flowers. It will stay in the color of the sky, the antique buildings of Antigua, and the hesitant smile of the little boy on the bus. Yes, part of my heart will stay here in the sound of the language on my tongue. It will stay in Central Park and next to the occupied pillas. My heart will be in the lilting trumpet that played Easter morning. My heart will be with the people of the basurero, those sleeping on the streets, the ones fighting the corruption, and the teachers of the language school, hoping to inspire a better world through open communication. My heart will be with the welcoming arms of the church and the hopeful women fighting for their own rights. My heart will be in the busy, crazy streets of Guatemala City; with the remnants of our group; the artist on the side of Arc Street; even the funnily-dressed tourist making their way down the street.

So with my heart tearing in my chest, saying goodbye and taking in each experience for the “last time,” I find myself begging. Please God take me back here. And with the pain of having planted some of my heart here, I see joy in the prospect of seeing these people I love once again – if not here, in the life after. Unfortunately, I find the word “blessed” lacking and dry – probably due to overuse and certain abuse. God has used an experience I never had dreamed of having to push me into a place I never thought I could be – not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. Coming back I’m scared to answer the question: How was Guatemala? Guatemala. What can I say? Incredible, sometimes scary, disheartening, lovely, beautiful, friendly, in places dirty, touristy, indigenous, historical, wrenching, ancient, modern – a heap of things I couldn’t begin to describe with mere words. Guatemala. With the mere word a gust of emotions washes over me. Guatemala. Something resonates in my chest. Guatemala. Now a part of me.

My poor, weakened heart. Yes, it’s hurt. It’s broken and bleeding. The wounds are fresh and painful. But that will change one day. One day, the halves will scar over and be all the stronger for their current damage. One day, my heart will beat clean, clear, strong beats that will ring through wherever I find myself. And, one day, I will use that remembering heart to reach out and touch the heart of others – perhaps yours. And one day, maybe one day, my longing heart will finds its way back to the place that will forever remain buried deep within.  

How the Time Flies (a really late part 3 of 3)

Huge tree in Petén.

06.05.13

No sé que voy a hacer cuando regreso a Minnesota y no hay viajes y excursiones todo el tiempo. Through my time here in Guatemala, and especially these last five weeks, I have really seen the beauty that is present in this world – both through the creations of God and man. The short weekend trips are definitely not enough. Every time we travel outside of Sacetepequez (the district we live in), I am left wanting more and wishing that I could simply sit and soak in the wonder surrounding me. It might have started an addiction to travel. . .

The view from the top of a ruin at Tikal.

            One of the greatest parts of Guatemala is its diversity. Both within the people groups  and in la tierra or geography, there is a stark difference that creates a sense of newness everywhere we go. Whether it be mountains, oceans, lakes, volcanoes, pueblos, or cities, Guatemala has something to offer. Four weeks ago, we made the trek to Tikal, Petén. (Most of you are likely familiar with this image associated with Guatemala – Mayan ruins standing stark in vast green forest.) We woke at 3:30 AM, Malaria pills packed, shorts on, and with groggy footsteps we made our way to the door to await the shuttle. After an unmemorable (as in it was too early to do anything but try and sleep) ride to Guatemala City, we boarded a small, 18-passenger plane. Fortunately, we were able to take a 45-minute plane ride to Tikal, rather than the 14-hour bus ride.

Our snack box on the plane! So cute!

Coffee Plant! 

            When we arrived in Petén, our excited tour guide in a large hat helped us board a tour bus (I’ve now officially ridden a tour bus!) that took us to the ruins of Tikal. For several hours we wandered around, walking where people had once walked, climbing where people had once lived, meandering through public squares that had been used thousands of years before. It felt like taking a step back in time, seeing the intelligence and ingenuity of a people group who had been taken over long ago. Trying to convince myself that I was actually walking through Mayan ruins took some effort.  

Ruin in Tikal 

We climbed to the top! 

            

          We spent the night and the next day in a town called Flores, which was actually a small island. The brightly painted buildings, busy open stores, and welcoming restaurants all facing the water made for a magical environment. We spent the time playing games, swimming in the lake, walking around, and eating the most delicious pancakes ever. All too soon we had to leave the hotel and make our way back to Antigua. 

            

          The next weekend, after saying our goodbyes to language school, Becky, Anna, Anita, and I made our way to Río Dulce. Puedo decir que era uno de los lugares más bonitos por toda mis viajes. For several hours we made our way, getting hotter and hotter, north to the east side of Guatemala. Later that night, we found ourselves in Backpacker’s Hotel. The hotel itself was somewhat of a dock – I could see the water underneath the holes in our bathroom floor – and had a great view of the river and the ginormous bridge looming over it. The next day upon arriving we awoke early to . . . well, to be honest, I wasn’t sure what. It was kind of a show up and hope to see some cool things after a really long car ride sort of trip. I was in luck. By 9:00 that morning we found ourselves in a waterfall/natural hot spring. Here we had the “pool” essentially to ourselves while we swam about under the hot-springs. We then climbed to the top of the waterfall and received a natural mud-bath scrub that made our skin especially soft. Even though I was bit by a fish, the experience was incredible. I have to imagine that there is a place similar to this in heaven. The stress of the last weeks of school and the build-up of learning about difficult things that were emotionally stressing washed away in the heat of the water dripping down upon me, sitting on a warmed rock with my feet in a cool pool. I am almost tempted not to put up any pictures because it can’t actually capture the beauty of it all. The picture can’t show you the way the water glinted as it peaked over the waterfall. It can’t allow you to hear the melody of the birds, mixing with the swirl of water from the river over stones. A picture doesn’t capture the slight breeze rustling the trees and bringing the smell of the water to your face, upturned to catch the sun spreading light through the trees. I wish I could just bring you all with me to experience it for yourselves.

They call this place "Paradise." 

            That day we also swam in Lake Isabel, one of the four big lakes of Guatemala and made our way around the castle of San Felipe – known for its many canons to fight against pirates. We also made our way down a canyon, faces upturned to the rocks hundreds of feet above our canoe. The stillness of the world increased as we made our way from the park where a church was having a small get-together. Although we did not make it to Livingston (which means I’ll just have to come back), the trip left me in awe of the wonder of Guatemalan landscape.

Lago Isabel 

Castillo de San Felipe

            The final trip we made did not so much structure around the beauty of Guatemalan tierra, so much as the incredible people. We made our way to Panajachel. Here we stayed in a huge, luxurious room and did a lot of shopping. It was strange to see that everything was sellable – and with force. Venders walked around, following our large group of gringos, pushing the best price of their necklace, bag, hotel, boat ride, or menu. Although we were able to see the fourth lake – Lake Atitlan – we couldn’t swim in it due to pollution. Instead we walked around, shopped, ate, talked, took a boat tour around the lake surrounded by mountains and volcanoes, and shopped again. It was an excellent opportunity to get to know people from our group a little bit better.

Anna, Andre, and I in San Antonio - part of the boat tour in Panajachel

Mountains around Lake Atitlan 

Panajachel before it was swarmed with shoppers

            I LOVE TO TRAVEL! 

The Hope of the Future and the Influence We Have

So this is not part 3 of 3 of my backwards-forwards-it-will-come-together blogging set. I promise I will next talk about my vacations in these last few weeks. However, if you know me, writing is somewhat of a release for me. So with this last experience, with these sentiments pounding in my heart and making it hard to sleep, I decided to share the sticky burden with all who read this. Thus, here it is: 

08.05.13

            As is possible with most bad habits, this one started on the playground. This specific playground was fairly normal: scrawling chalk drawings, small metal slides speckled with rust spots, and squeaky swings that shuffled in the wind when left unburdened.

            This playground was boxed in by the pre-kinder nursery rooms, 90 children staring with expectant eyes as the morning’s clouds rolled away. It was beneath this beating sun that we pulled out what turned out to be some sort of magical, child-magnetizing tool, far better than video games or even candy – bubbles.

Within mere seconds of blowing the first stream of glistening bubbles, our small gringo group of three made fast friends. The three to six year-olds who had previously kept a safe distance from the blonde giants came running to play. Immediately, I was transformed from bubble-holder to jungle gym – kids on my shoulders, in my lap, dripping bubble solution down my sweater and on my tennis.

But this story does not really pertain to the magic bubbles at all, not really. No, this story finds its center with one particular boy. Like all the cryptic authors say, we’ll call him . . . Marcos.

I think it would be fair to say that Marcos is an average boy. His black cap of hair is in need of a cut and flops in strange patterns when he is running. His mini polo shirt – like his hair, a little to big – is cinched in tight where it meets his jeans. His big, brown eyes widen when any compliments are paid toward his fast-and-good-for-running Spiderman sneakers.

Marcos, for being a fiver year-old boy with un montón of directed energy, is also a somewhat accomplished sharer. With only three bottles of bubbles to share with the 50 children swarming the playground, sharing was imperative. Although reluctant to let go of the bubble-wand – especially after a disappointing release of tiny bubbles – Marcos did surprisingly well relinquishing his turn to the next child.

Usually, that is. As I watched the pattern of Marcos’s behavior blossom, my heart sunk, heavy with disappointment.

One thing that is important to understand about Guatemala is that since the colonization of Central America, there has been a gap between the Spanish and the indigenous. Never mind that they make up 60 percent of the current population, still today the mayan population holds meager jobs, has less access to education, and fights against bitter stereotypes that have become their reality. (That, of course, is a generalization, but it is one that I have come to see as fairly accurate.) The tourist industry has capitalized on their broader features and colorful clothing, but in cultural society, the indigenous are often disregarded as less than valuable.

So I watched as Marcos would share and laugh with his little boy friends – the ones who looked like him and had parents and traditions like his. When the little girl, dressed in her mini traditional huipil, pushed her hand into the circle to play, Marcos’s reaction was to first walk away from her. When she followed, he’d blow bubbles directly into her face. After a while of her persisting, he turned to shoving and grabbing the wand from her hand. As he saw acted out on the streets each day, possibly in his home – this is what he did.

So perhaps you can see why I lost my breath a little and felt like desperation was clawing at my throat. These were children. They are the “hope of the future,” our crowning glory, the innocent – and they simply acted out in their little-child world, the dirty adult games their parents and their society had set before them. With the selfish attitudes and disregarding actions given to them as toys, they eagerly put on their too-big roles. Do we know the power we have?

How the Time Flies (2)

30.04.13

Centro Linguistico Mayo - my school of eight weeks

Flat Samuel and I hard at work in class! 

The walk home from school, past Parque Central, take a left past Monoloco.

Pues, aquí estamos – parte dos. So for the last four weeks since my previous set of blog-posts about our trip to Sumpango over Holy Week, I have been in school. So that you have a clear depiction of my daily life (hopefully that is at least of some interest to you if you’re reading this) over the last month before moving to Magdalena: First, I would rise each day and get ready for breakfast by 7:00 with my other housemates. Then we’d walk to school by 8:00. Here we would reunite with the other Bethel students and pray over the day. From there we would separate and each find our teachers. Each student had their own professor and met in the same place each day. This time my teacher, Ana María, and I had our own room on the second floor. From 8:15ish until around 10:00 we’d work through the schedule outlined for us – this session I was studying the history of Latin America. Somewhere in those two hours we made our way below to grab a coffee – hard work requires sustenance, right? Then again at 10:00 coffee was available, this time with sweetbread and a half-hour break. Usually during this time the other students and I sat on the roof, talking and taking in the view and the sounds of the school next door. Que rico, no?

The view from one side of the terraza. We usually sat in those benches while drinking our coffee and eating our sweetbread. 

The roof. Some students had classes on this level. 

            After the break we all returned to our studies until 12:00. We then each walked home to have lunch with our host-families at 1:00. This was always my favorite meal of the day, as it was the biggest and usually the most “typical.” Lunch also almost always included tortillas and guacamole, so that fueled my appreciation as well. After lunch, my roommate and one or two other friends and I usually went to a café for more reliable internet and a comfortable space where we could do homework. As Antigua is a very tourist-centered city, we had a plethora of options. One of our favorites was a café in which the rooftop seating overlooked the central park. It is always amazing to see the mix of people who meander through and how they interact with one another.

On the walk to school. Me encantan las flores aquí.

Simply a view from the backside of the school, La Merced across town.

            This last Friday, it was definitely difficult to say goodbye to the school. El ambiente era algo tan especial. Being in a setting where everyone is there to foster learning, encouragement, and thoughtful thinking is such a special experience. Over the last eight weeks we’ve spent there, I’ve grown close to my teachers, our little group of students and their professors with whom I’ve shared activities, and other staff involved at the school. I think everyone could probably attest to my share of tears that were shed. I was extremely blessed to share the time I did in such a supportive environment. I know I am lucky to have access to have the education I do, but this time really showed me the power of relationships and learning, especially combined. I will carry those memories in my heart forever.  

My teacher from the first session of classes, the lively Rosa María. 

The group of professors and students with whom I sometimes worked. We watched movies together, discussed, and had quite a bit of fun. 

. . . and the delicious chocolate cake we finished together the last day of classes . . . que rico! 

My professor from the second session, the wonderful and confident Ana María.