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Michael Jackson grabbed his crotch, thrust his hips into the air, scowl on his face. Twirl, crotch grab again, pony tail bobbing, feet sliding, watch him now, there’s another crotch grab, wait a minute, something’s amiss, where’s his rhythm, the beat’s off, hey now, he hesitated there, who is this man? Where am I, what is this blue tent, who are these tanned children with smiles, spending 20 precious quetzals to see… ah, what do I know? What’s he dancing on, dust? What’s this lighting, a simple bulb? And now it’s over, and I’m watching a dog dressed as an elephant lie down not quite on command.
If it ain’t baroque, don’t fix it. “’Things have a life of their own,’ the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. ‘It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.’” I know that harsh accent. Or at least, that accent sounded harsh when it first reached my ears. Now, it is a part of me, and it sounds like chocolate. Like a river of chocolate love, thrusting its hips, grabbing its crotch, jumping naked into a sublime lake, dressing like an elephant, acting like a disobedient dog, and loving it all the same. Does this make sense to you? It wouldn’t have to me just a week ago. So let me help you understand, but forgive me if I fail, for words often cannot do justice to memories, just as memories often cannot do justice to life in the present.
Also, forgive me for my sentimentality; I just had an amazing week in an amazing country. Being away, or am I away yet? oh I don’t know, forgive me all the same. Mateo, formerly Matthew, has lived in Guatemala 10 years, San Andres 8. He protects 150 acres of national forest, built a library, and now runs it, started a high school, and now teaches its pupils. I, along with 11 or so others helped him out for a week. We stayed with families, who cooked us delicious food for every meal and showed us where the hole for shitting was, and where the bucket for showering was, and where the bed for sleeping was. At 9 pm, the library closed for the evening, and we were done working for the day, and this was the only event that occurred without tardiness in Guatemala ever, and afterwards we were exhausted. So we would regroup, get drunk, get high, get naked, jump in the lake, get out of the lake, either keep our clothes off and hook up with each other or put our clothes back on and hook up with each other, or oh Mayan Spirits who knows but damn was it fun.
Awake at 7, am I hungover or am I tired, do I need to vomit or do I need to laugh? All of these things! But, the boots go on and off to work. Walk into the jungle and witness a different world, but don’t sit idly by! Work! Dig, dig, dig, plant, plant, plant, oh my are you sweating or what and oh goodness your face is so red don’t even look at my shoulders you’ll think they’re bleeding and ah that blister and oh Mayan Spirits I’m tired but oh! It’s 12, and it’s time for lunch. Yum yum yum, and it’s done, and on goes the bathing suit and flip flops, and hurry hurry hurry to the lake before the heat gets you and running start jump plunge ahhhh heat I have you beat now, and I am most certainly yes this is heaven oh my, and sit on the dock and life is slow and forever and beautiful and this beer crossing my lips is the Manna of a worthy soul, but am I worthy? Oh, off to see if I am, back to work, teach teach teach, much laughter, much confusion, my body got a workout and now my mind and oh am I helping? I hope so. Now it’s dinner time, and now it’s more teaching, and now it seems the entire town is watching eight locals and two Americans run up and down a concrete basketball court with as much enthusiasm as any championship game that ever was played.
And now we are in a bus, some 15 of us, nine hours, not many words, just stares out the window, beautiful countryside but were we really watching it go by? Or were we simply marveling at what had gone by? I think the latter, and then we are in Antigua, the Ancient City but oh it seems so young, so alive, and oh Mayan Spirits must I live here! Funky beats, fruity drinks, paradise? Hello? Peek-aboo, I have found you!
Gabriel Garcia Marquez said, “My most important problem was destroying the line of demarcation that separates what seems real from what seems fantastic.” Oh, brother, do I know what you mean Gabriel Garcia. The Michael Jackson impersonator in the travelling circus which had stopped in the Guatemalan town of San Andres, population, oh who knows but it’s small and poor, is he real or is he fantastic? Is it a dog or an elephant? Which one is real, and which is fantastic? The work I did – planting, digging, teaching, painting, was it real, was it fantastic, was it futile? The people I met, Mayans, Ladinos, volunteers, children, what were they? Real? Certainly. Fantastic? Oh, most of them. What of this line of demarcation, drawn in the Guatemalan dust, etched in the trees in the jungles of Peten, heard in the calls of Howler Monkeys leaping from tree to tree amongst Mayan temples standing thousands of years? And what next? Goodbye, Guatemala.
