GUATEMALA - 10

ANTIGUA - II

Our sweet day in Antigua is approaching its end. At 6:30 pm, our last shuttle in Gitemala will pick us up to take us to Hotel Barcelo in Guatemala City so that I can catch my 6:15 am flight comfortably, the next day. In fear of bed bugs, I reserved a nicer hotel, which the internet site gave me a very good price for. It was quite a surprise to find out it was a five star hotel for that modest price. I don’t know about the readers, but I feel extremely uncomfortable at 5-star hotels. The discrepancy between the rich and poor is all around us if one is willing to see it. However, at 5-star hotels it is like a punch in the eye: There is no better place that I have had occasional access to than 5-star hotels where poor is made feel servant and subservient to the rich, most of whom come to such places to feel gratified with feelings of superiority and dominance. The servants unfortunately do anything and everything to get that bit of tip that turns them into modern-day beggars. Most rich enjoy this to the greatest extent, fulfilling their need to rule, their need to be served at every turn. I don’t. I feel very uncomfortable when another human being bends backwards to be my servant even when there is no expectation behind it, let alone when it is done for couple of dollars of a tip.

One doorman helps pick up our luggage, gets his tip, another loads them into a cart, gets his tip, yet another one would like to carry it upstairs. I am out of change, I clearly tell him with my poor Spanish, but this time even grammatically correct “Por favor, no necesitamos ayudar, gracias.” But no, he will help us, he opens the elevator door, puts the cart into the elevator and gets in the elevator himself along with us. I am panicking on what to do now. Should I be direct and tell him I don’t have change? How can I do that while preserving my elegance with the little bit of Spanish I or Zeynep has. We are finally in the room and there is no way around it any more. I gather all my strength and declare “Lo siento, tengo no cambio.” hoping it will mean change in Spanish the way we use it in English. He says “No problem.” but it is a problem for me my friend. As soon as we are done with our dinner and obtain more change Zeynep finds him and tips him to resolve our embarrassment.

The clientele here whether Latino or American is totally different of course than those we have been encountering this past week on the streets of Guatemala. The Latinos clearly come from gated communities, who might be enjoying their ability to leave the mainstream behind and outside their high and thick walls. The American group that we end up having dinner with in the same lounge turns out to be a missionary group, celebrating the service of a relatively older gentleman, probably a clergy from the USA. I can’t help but think I much prefer to be with the 99%.

I know I would like to come back to Guatemala at least one more time. Next time around, I will go directly to Tikal and nearby areas to visit the spectacular remains of the Mayan history at its peak. After hopefully acclimating to the high altitude better, I will give another try to volcano climbing. One more try. This time, I’d like to do it without a guide at my own pace. Savoring the beauty around me, absorbing the history, becoming one with the nature at my own pace in my own heart. This is one pleasant country that everybody needs to visit.

That is Guatemala for me in July of 2012.

GUATEMALA -9-

ANTIGUA-I

We are finally on our shuttle that will take us to Antigua, the most attractive and lively city in Guatemala I heard from many people and so I hear from Zeynep, who’s been to Antigua before. In fact, we will stay at the hotel that she stayed at earlier. Shuttle meanders up and around Lago de Atitlan for at least an hour with breathtaking views of the volcanoes and the lake itself. As the sun dives into the night behind the volcanoes, so do we into the yet another mountainous terrain that will lead us to Antigua in two-hours. We will spend our second to last night and last day in Guatemala, in Antigua. Antigua is one of the most resilient cities in Guatemala, I hear. Once the capitol, several times collapsed to its knees, but re-emerged from rubble many times. And now designated one of the world’s historical heritage sites, it indeed is the most vibrant among all other Guatemalan cities, at least of those that Zeynep and I have cumulatively seen.

Leaving Lago de Atitlan behind until the next time

We stay at Casa Rustica, a place Zeyno arranged. I am pleased with our room, clean, orderly, and has a spacious enough bathroom in it. What else will I need as I travel anywhere in the world but more so in a country with so little resources? Once we are settled down and have checked our e-mails, Zeynep starts calling her friends to make arrangements for dinner. Some of her friends from Xela are also in Antigua tonight. We will eat together. We have identified a Mediterranean restaurant, time to try something different after having eaten Guatemalan good for almost a week now. We want to see how ethnic food in Guatemala is served. And soon we will discover they do a superb job: phenomenal, as good as middle-eastern food gets anywhere in the world. And this is not only Zeyno and I claiming this, but also her two friends, who join us for dinner. 

Colorful Antigua with its renovated old structures

After dinner, the girls decide to go to a salsa dance when I head back to the hotel to get a good night’s sleep after traveling from early in the morning to late evening every day for almost a week now. Oh my! What an futile plan.  The bar nearby has jacked up its microphones; it feels like the drums are beating within my head. It is impossible to sleep. I get up planning to call the reception and ask “what the h… is going on?” As my hand goes to the phone I notice a note on the wall apologizing for the noise from the bar on Friday and Saturdays due to lack of any noise ordinance in town. It is almost unbelievable, “lack of noise ordinance” almost wants me to ask “is there any of that for anything around here?” I calm myself down reminding me of the disorganization I used to live with on my own land. The warmth, intimacy, expressivity that we so liked in this land go hand in hand with these "occasional" lack of ordinances... I have never appreciated my ear plugs this much. I dig them out. As I lie down with ear plugs in and two pillows pressed against my head, the noise is reduced only to a bearable level. Th drums are not beating in my head any more rather about a foot away!! It will take me another hour or two to finally drift into a very uncomfortable sleep.  In the morning, I make a mental note as to where not to stay in Antigua next time around.

The main market building in the "agora" of Antigua

It is good to wake up without having to set the clock. We will be afoot today, no boats, no shuttles to catch in the morning. We take it easy. On our last day in Guatemala, we are  wandering around in Antigua with no plans. We are just walking on calles and avenidas, trying to figure out where sur starts and norte ends. Churches emerge from around a corner unexpectedly. Some collapsed to the ground, even the ruins are impressive, waiting for funding to be fixed to their once-upon-a-time powerful identity. Artisan stalls are sweet spectacles in front of churches or ruins alike. One reminds me of the guy with a big curly head from Bolivia that we had met in San Pedro, who couldn’t sell Zeyno any jewelry on his last day (if true) in Guatemala. All the flirting he did ended up for nothing. Once he heard about Zeynep having a boyfriend in the US, he realized how futile his efforts were and gave up. Pleasant memory…

The most well preserved church in Antigua

Unexpectedly but pleasantly, we come across a spa. Zeynep being the queen of pleasures of life shows a jolly interest in the idea of getting a massage before leaving Guatemala. I submit, hoping my painful muscles from the volcano climbing a few days back may benefit from it, too. The first place turns out to be a total failure, the moment I see the dirty towels on which we will be asked to lie to get the massage, I know I can’t do it. But, we have made the decision already, we will leave Guatemala with a Mayan massage in our history. We start looking for a better place and eventually we do find one to our liking. Mayan massage place on San Luciano Norte, numero 20, just a few blocks down from the first place.

Yet another well preserved spectacular historic structure

A first in my life. Zen music starts shortly after Zeyno goes into the room where she will receive her massage. It is so soothing that I don’t know if I will be able to keep awake during the massage. Surely, it turns out to be a semi-conscious experience. Professional hands mobilizing each and every muscle that daily life leaves dormant. The juice of life rushing into each muscle, each cell, invigorating life in each of them. I never knew my hands had such small muscles that could be awakened. I never knew my neck could be this loose. I never knew deja vous and ja me vous could be experienced at the same time. I never knew massage was also yoga. Letting go somebody else take over the job of stretching and relaxing the muscles while I focus only on my breathing, total submission except for breathing.

Yes, it indeed turns out to be a rejuvenating experience, I may go back to this when I return to Iowa City. Especially after a difficult court case that involves a defendant: I know my testimony based on medical facts will get him into trouble. I know he is also a victim of his own childhood experiences that led to the abuse of his child in his own hands. And I: helpless with all this knowledge, confined within the boundaries of the law, suffering both for the victim and the perpetrator, who is already a double victim. Those days are the ones that I get back home feeling defeated and tense and questioning whether what we are doing is the right thing; putting these young men and women in jail. Then what? Those will be the days I will need a good massage from now on. I wake up from my half-asleep state with Jarmina telling me “Cerra vida” and translates “Finished.” “Muchas gracias Jarmina”. “Adios” and yes adios to you Jarmina. Guatemala has written another first to my history. Another aspect Antigua has proven to be different from the rest of Guatemala that I have seen in the last several days.

                                                  From our breakfast garden in Antigua

GUATEMALA -8-

SANTIAGO DE ATITLAN IS NOT DONE, YET

We are not done with the market, yet. As attractive as the stands for edible goods are, the non-edible goods stands are as gloomy; plastic toys of all kinds, who knows where they were produced, could they be some of the toxic-contaminated ones from China. Typical American style tank tops, T-shirts, shorts, skirts, pants, etc. Although, I haven’t seen this style of clothing on anybody on the streets that looked native, if they are in the market, there must be consumers for them. I wonder if tourism is what keeps the traditional weaving and embroidering alive. Is it possible that since there is a market for what they are producing, they are wearing it as well? I hope not, I hope they truly enjoy what they wear and are proud of who they are. I can’t help feeling warm to consumerist tourism for once, if it is what might be keeping this lovely interesting tradition alive, so be it. Perhaps it is good that Zeynep and I are also interested in their art and produce.  

Entrance to one of the art studios

Once we are done with the market, watching our watches, rather Zeyno’s cell phone: we head toward the simple church on the central plaza. As we are approaching it and as Zeyno slips her cell phone back into her backpack, the question that visits me very often comes back to me again: Where are we going with all this constellation of digital devices that take over our lives? We used to write letters, no more, we e-mail. We used to use type writers, no more, we type on our computers, I-phones, I-pads, you name it, although, I can’t say I will complain much about not having to use a type-writer any more. We probably are saving trees by switching to computer-based typing as well as saving a lot of time, at least so I’d like to believe. People would make friends at the gym, no more. Everybody, I mean it, everybody, except I, of course, is wired up in their own worlds with their own music, in solitude, cut off from the outside. If you see a friend and they are willing to say good morning, they have to unwire first.

We used to talk at least on the phone, now we have to text. Nobody picks up a phone anymore, too much time lost. Texting is what is in. As much as I resisted to that, in order to get a rapid response from my daughter, many of my friends, I ended up texting more than I would like as well. We used to read books, used to hear that whoosh sound of turning pages along with smell the scent of paper pages, even that is bound to its doom day. At least ¼ of the passengers on a plane will be reading off of their electronic devices. I am still resisting that, who knows how much longer I will be able to. I wonder with all this electronic life style, if human kind will evolve genetically over millennia and will not need human contact any more, will not need to converse with a human being face to face, will not fall in love any more? Food for thought…

The Church in Santiago de Atitlan

We are finally in the church. As simple as it is, it is still the most elegant building around. It is interesting that Christianity has deep, deep roots in this land. However, it also looks like traditional shamanism and Christianity evolved together and created a new identity for one another and most of the time dissolved in one another. Everything I read describes how Christianity had to accept shamanistic elements built into the way Christianity was practiced in this land, built into the structure of churches they built, into the manner with which priests preached, etc. It is still a bit disconcerting to me, though, to observe how religious a society this is in such a structured and rigid way.

We are back to our boat that will take us to our hotel. After retrieving our luggage from the hawk’s nest up above the dock, we will have to catch the next boat to take us to Panajachel so that we can catch our 4 pm shuttle to Antigua. We don’t know yet, what an adventure it will be.  As we walk down the main street, I am touched with a scene that creates a de ja vu feeling. Where did I see this scene before? The lake is as still as can be. Off the shore is a simple one-man boat. The man is paddling in a standing position and fishing. Ah, of course, this is what the artists up the street have been documenting over and over again. Mayan man fishing for his family in his simple canoe. I am very happy to memorialize this for myself.

Men seem to be fishing only, all else is done by women

Serendipitously, we are again on Pablo’s boat. We checked out of our casa del mundo already and left our luggage in the office to pick up on the way back. It is a pity that we will have to wait for half an hour at the dock for the next boat. There is no alternative, though. We will get off this boat, go up the 100 some stairs and find our friendly waiter, bellboy, whatever needs to be at the casa and ask him to carry our two heavy pieces to the dock to catch the next boat to Pana. But wait, Pablo has another idea. He asks Zeyno, who already told her about our plan in their casual conversation, whether our luggage is already packed. She says yes and as soon as I hear the question, hope rises in me “would they really?” Yes! They indeed do. Pablo volunteers, the boat can wait at the dock, he will run up with us to fetch the luggage. Fantastic, this will give us an additional 20 minutes, which calms down my anxiety about whether we will catch our shuttle or not.

Pablo waiting to jump off the boat to get to our luggage

This is what happens: The captain approaches the dock, the three of us jump out of the boat like deer over shrubs in the forest. Of course the two young fly up, do all the talking, and by the time I am up to pick up one of the luggage at least, Pablo has two backpacks and my carry on. Oh my, Antonio has the largest on his back and he is almost flying down a different path to beat Pablo to the dock. I look up to Zeynep to see what is happening. It looks like we have two helpers now. Zeyno shrugs her shoulders as if to say “Well, I wanted to take one of the luggage, but they wouldn’t let me” with a serene smile on her face. Ok, all we have to do then, is to prepare the tip, which we don’t mind at all. My heart, pounding in my chest with my hurry to help them at least with my carry-on, is full of affection for both of them. I wonder if part of all this unforgettable show is showing off to Zeynep, who knows. As we get to the boat, out luggage is being loaded and both boys are happy with their earning.

Everybody is happy. We both enjoy the lake for another 20 minutes, the wind blowing through our bandanas and hair, peace and affection filling our hearts for this place and its people. What is funny is that, as soon as the captain docks the boat in Pana, he jumps out of the boat and grabs our heavy luggage and carries it to the shuttle office. “They are quick learners” I murmur to myself with a smile on my face. All my worries about how we would carry our luggage were for nothing. As long as we have 10-20Q ready and perhaps as long as I carry Zeynep around, having an easy vacation around here is very easy.

                                                                       Our captain

GUATEMALA - 7 -

TILAPIA AND RED SNAPPER

We are hungry now. When we find a small restaurant right on the water to have fish for lunch, it turns out to be the highlight of the day. We order grilled Tilapia. I’d like to taste the fish in its origin. I hope it tastes better than it does in the US. As we are waiting for our ordered grilled fish, a young woman approaches us in her usual attire: Long striped skirt wrapped around the hips made of cloth hand-woven by perhaps herself, tucked under a waist band again hand-embroidered, hand woven; a blouse again hand-embroidered and a shawl across one shoulder that is usually used to carry their infants and other things. In her case, her textile is nested in her shawl. She must be a mobile vendor. Her eyes are innocent, mild, friendly, not pushy at all. Zeynep, at that moment proposes to get all of the gifts from Guatemala for my family in Turkey for my (now already completed) visit in September. What a fine idea, they will so appreciate it.

Shiri with her lovely Textile and warm innocent looks

And we have this fine woman, now, whom we like instantaneously. We buy several items, and whatever she doesn’t have, she drops everything she is carrying at the feet of our table and runs like a doe; to her nearby store or house and in a minute she is back with more goods and Zeynep is happy to find the treasure she is looking for in her supply. We buy as many of our gifts as possible from her. Zeynep pays for all our purchase, she wants these gifts to the family members to be truly hers. When we are done with our shopping, I ask Shiri, that is her name, if I can take a picture of her with her textile. She agrees with a shy smile. Zeynep would like to have a picture with her as well. Shiri is delighted, they are like two pals, feeling so at ease with giving a hug to each other.

Shiri felt like we could easily take her home with us

I ask her whether she has an e-mail address for me to send her these photos. She says she doesn’t. I ask her whether she would like us to send them to the restaurant owner. Her face is slightly clouded, she says “Esta bien” to the effect of “No, thanks, that is OK.” We smile, we understand, there may be cultural barriers, certainly. We thank her and she leaves happy, fulfilled. We are also very happy and fulfilled. The only worry we have now is whether and how we will be able to fit all that we have and will continue accumulating in our bags.

Another positive note is that the tilapia dish turns out to be the best dish we will have in our entire Guatemala trip. This reminds me of a red snapper dish Bill and I had had in Puerto Rico during our first trip there. We were spending our vacation in the Northeastern section of Puerto Rico. One day we had decided to go down south along the eastern shore. Around 11 am, we had arrived in a town called Naguabo. We stopped at a restaurant to have a cup of tea. As we were passing by the cook’s stand, who was frying fish in the rear central section of the open air restaurant, I was stunned to see a stack of fried red snappers, a foot high covering a window 2x2 feet in size. Curious, we had asked the waiter why they were frying so much fish with not many customers visible in town. Wait, he had said, in an hour this place is going to turn into a zoo, today is Three Kings’ Day. Certainly, it was January 6^th and this eve kids in Puerto Rico would get their gifts instead of our Christmas. We decided instead of tea to order our lunch before the crowds hit. Sure enough, in an hour, it felt like all of San Juan had driven down to Naguabo to have lunch and picnic. That red snapper also remains to be the best one I have had so far.  

Simple bust the best Tilapia I have had so far over handwoven Mayan tablecloth 

Mid afternoon, we feel we have seen enough of San Pedro and head to Panajachel. Zeynep wants to show me the street market in Pana, as the locals call it, and I am sure she wants to explore it herself a bit more. Yes indeed, the open air street market in Pana is very big and full of variety. We find an ornate horse for my best friend Nukhet’s father Sadan Amca, whom I will visit in September (and, did he like it! He was so happy when he was proudly placing it in his cabinet where he has been displaying all the horses he has been accumulating for many decades now). To my surprise, I find a small rug for my house, which is now happily residing in the hallway leading to my bedroom. We sometimes feel this is getting out of control. I bought a Mayan blanket already in Xela, now the rug and lots of other textile in addition to all the “macramé” jewelry Zeynep has been accumulating. But, we are also so happy to get these unique items and be able to help these women, we don’t care. We both feel like teenagers in a way, and I let it go. It feels good from whatever perspective I look at it. Let it go.

After purchasing our tickets for the next evening to go to Antigua, we head back to our casa, on the same boat that brought us the day before, the same captain and his helper, Pablo. This time I get a spontaneous crash course on how sturdy the canvas above our heads is. It is loaded with boxes of a dozen of 2-liter soda bottles, at least a dozen of them. I get it, there was no way our luggage would fly off. We travel with two Canadian families this time. They are there helping locals build houses. One teaches engineering at a university, the other is an IT person. And they were there with their spouses and children. What a wonderful task. Out of religious aspirations (we don’t know for our Canadian friends at least) or not, a lot of people are doing such good in this country, I will discover in the next several days.

Our Canadian friends, good people building homes for other good people

The next day, we will spend in SanTiago Atitlan, the most authentic town, we hear, around the lago, its namesake. We are a bit disappointed to learn that it is quite an ordeal to get there. But we feel like it is still doable despite the time crunch to catch our shuttle to Antigua from Pana. We get up early in the morning but leave only after enjoying the sunrise and the mystic beauty it brings to the lake nad the surrounding volcanoes.

Breathtaking beauty of the lake early in the morning 

We then take a boat to SanPedro. We have to take a tuktuk to the next embarcadero, where we will take another boat to SanTiago. I hadn’t realized that SanPedro was so big it needed two docks for intercity transportation. It turns out to be a clearly two hour trip, door to door. We leave the touristic market behind quickly and head toward the real, authentic market. And, that turns out to be the highlight of SanTiago for me: This is where the local locals buy their food, their materials, their eggs. Eggs are abundant and it seems like their major protein source is eggs and beans. Fish probably is part of their diet, but most likely caught for the family by men, not sold in the market. Lots of bananas, oranges, amorphously shaped peaches, plums, avocados, a green vegetable that I couldn’t recognize, beans of various colors, potatoes, onions, tomatoes are some of the edible goods I could recognize.

Zeyno certainly adds to the beauty of the lake, doesn't she? 

Times like this is when I feel part of a community. When I go to places where they eat, to places where they shop, to places where they hang out. I wish, I had had more Spanish skills to strike up lengthy conversations. Alas, not yet. We buy fruit and do something I thought I’d never do for fear of traveler’s diarrhea, but we do, we buy freshly squeezed orange juice filling a plastic bag and served with a straw. Zeyno has been seasoned with that and has no reservations for this daily tradition here, which eliminates my concerns, and one more time I let it go. Mmmm, it is delicious and so refreshing. I feel rehydrated instantaneously.

Never say never is my motto while traveling, you never know what you will do that you thought you'd never do like drinking handsqueezed orange juice out of a plastic bag! 

GUATEMALA -6-

DAY 2 ON LAGO DE ATITLAN

The next morning we take a boat to San Pedro right after breakfast. We pass by several little villages and towns on the hills of the Lago. We stop at several docks to pick up passengers from “casas” like ours, from little secluded hotels or from homes of locals. Some homes look like villas of some significance. When we inquire, we learn that, sure enough, one of those belongs to the owner of the Guatemalan beer Gallo. Who knows how kosher the money they make is. I recall the 10 M dollar homes we had seen in Miami on a tour Zeynep and I had had in Miami more than a decade ago. One had belonged, to Somoza, the Nicaraguan dictator, and who knows who it belongs to now after his death in 1980 following the 1979 revolution led by the Sandinista Liberation Front.  When his people were moaning under poverty, starvation, and torture, he had invested in America this “negligible” amount of the national income into a single family home, with air-conditioners installed in the yard for their summer parties. Who knows what the Castillo Hermanos’ home, everybody on the boat is mesmerized with looks like. I can’t help but wonder if there is anybody’s blood staining the quetzals spent to build this mansion.  

Castillo Hermanos' home by Lago de Atitlan

SanPedro is a town similar to Panajachel, but less touristy. The entrance to the national park leading to the summit of Volcan SanPedro is at the skirt of the impressive volcano. That is where we are heading. We take a tuk-tuk, a local means of transportation, a motorized tricycle that accommodates up to 3 passengers in its backseat. $1.5 per person, the driver flies us to the trailhead. The streets are narrow down to ally size now. But our driver seems to be seasoned. As soon as we get off the tuk-tuk, locals meet us at the entrance to the park, volunteering to guide us up the volcano. We heard at the hotel that it is a straightforward hike, but the story here is different. They state, whether we take a guide or not, the entrance fee is 100Q (quetzal), doesn’t make sense, but what the heck. We decide, it may be another opportunity to get to know locals. We take the guide, it turns out to be an opportunity for Zeyno to practice her Spanish, too. 

1/3 of the way up to the summit of Vocan San Pedro

The climb unfortunately is more difficult than I expected. The guide is half way to flying up the mountain. The earlier he gets back, the more likely he will squeeze in another group up and another 100Q. I wonder if we made the right decision by hiring this guide. Setting our own pace could have been much better. In addition, altitude may be playing a role in this, too. Zeynep and the guide obviously have been well acclimated to the altitude. For me on the other hand, it has been only 36 hours of breathing this thin air. In an hour and a half, we are half way to the summit.

Half way up to the summit, San Pedro spreading over the peninsula

Shortness of breath, dizziness and muscle aches take over me. Never experienced such altitude sickness before, but never have been at such high elevation and embarked on such a climb, at such a fast pace before, either. Zeynep is very understanding, we decide heading back to make use of the rest of our day in other ways, if nothing else there is shopping of course. We decide to walk down to SanPedro from the national park, partly to save my honor, I guess, and partly to see if we can catch an opportunity to walk through real neighborhoods.

Entrance to the national park

We spot a narrow ally heading down toward the water, we take it. What a good idea, it takes us to the heart of a neighborhood. Women cleaning their yards, carrying stuff on their heads as all Mayan women do, kids released from school bringing the streets to life, men driving their tuk-tuk. We go into a vivid discussion about how similar the Mayans are to primitive societies. Women stayed around the home, grew their food, took care of the home and the kids, men hunted. We observe that women do the same here, everything that is sold in the markets are pretty much the product of female labor. Men fish it appears and we see many of them, just like in the paintings all over the market in San Pedro and other towns we will see, fishing in their simple boats. Otherwise, all else seems to be produced by women. How unfortunate that the education of such important manpower, of women is neglected in many societies, especially in the developing world, which needs utmost efficiency from it.

One of the women earning a living for her family

One of the kids falls on the side of the ally or so we think, another starts yelling at us “Emergencia, emergencia.” We stop for a moment, hesitantly, but soon discover with the giggles from others around, he didn’t fall actually but threw himself on the ground and they are pulling our leg. We giggle back and continue on our journey. There are many more giggles behind us now.

Zeynep in one of the colorful allyways

The rest of our walk takes us to artisan galleries where a style of painting is displayed in great multitude. A style characterized by a combination of impressionism and expressionism displayed with as bright colors as these people have made part of their lives at every turn: the façade of their homes are in bright yellows, reds, oranges, pinks, greens, and blues. Their clothes bloom in all colors of the rainbow with a bold statement at each piece that these women weave and embroider. Guatemala, in short, is an elegant parade of spring colors that elate the mind and the spirit. They use all these colors, their weaving, their lake, their volcanoes, their fishing and cultivating the soil in their painting. We buy two paintings.

A woman doing her laundry, wading in the lake up to her waist.

I find one of them in an artisan store. She tells us she and her husband do all the paintings. I don’t know if she is telling us the truth initially. But I like the images of the lake I have been savoring for two days now, I buy it, for a special friend, who I know will appreciate it.  On the way back, we take out our lonely planet book and discover with joy that in fact that very store was one of those where this style of painting started and spread to the southern Lago de Atitlan. We will see similar paintings in San Tiago de Atitlan the next day and I will buy another one with the image of a Mayan woman portrayed from her back with just the right colors and right amount of details. This will go onto the wall where I display the special small art pieces I have been acquiring in countries I have visited over the years.

Throughout the week, we buy lots of things from mostly female vendors and shop keepers. I feel a gender-camaraderie with these women, somehow. I want them to be successful. I like overwhelming majority of them. They have such positive attitude, I can see the goddess of fertility and productivity in almost each of them. I wonder if there is something in the tropical and subtropical lands that make people so laid back, gay, jolly, and full of hope. Perhaps the mild climate, the sedative effect of the lush green, colorful flowers blooming everywhere, all the time. I hope they don’t lose this as they are more exposed to globalization and the perceived goods it brings along. I hope they don’t start feeling less because of being deprived of our fake fortunes due to their poverty.  

GUATEMALA -5-

LAGO DE ATITLAN           

The staircase leads us to a lovely terrace circled by several rooms, one of which is ours. The moment we step onto the terrace my breath is taken away. Lago de Atitlan is lying before my eyes like a submissive bride (I bet this is a Turkish phrase) with no ripple on her surface; she is definitely asleep. What is around it is surreal. The trio of volcanoes of Atitlan, San Pedro and Ixchimo are circling the beautiful lake making this part of the world indeed a spot out of heaven. I bet it didn’t feel like that when the old volcano that occupied the bed of this lake some couple hundred years ago exploded followed with an implosion that was filled with the juice of the skies and... Valla: a spectacular crater lake that we now enjoy. My Lonely Planet declares, the ashes of that explosion reached all the way to Florida. I feel sorry for the Mayans that must have been perished with the catastrophe. But I also can’t help being mesmerized with this surreal visual feast. “Savor the moment” is a whisper through my lips.

To the right is Volcan San Pedro barely visible, in the backgorund are the other two of the trio

As I am standing before our window, Antonio, the Mayan boy walks in with our luggage as if he returned from picking flowers, no penting whatsoever. It is almost impossible to believe the amount of strength he has in that small body. We appreciate his work, he appreciates the tip Zeyno gives him, to such an extent, in half an hour, when I am still dizzy with the beauty before my eyes, there is a knock on the door. It is Antonio, he is letting us know the dinner is served. A first in any hotel or even B&B I stayed all my life. I wonder if it is his appreciation of the tip or something residual from colonial days. The second evening he is at our door again. We want to believe he simply liked us, mother and daughter and is treating us extra nice. Who knows, he might have a dream of finding an American girl to take him to America, too. Who knows… 

Zeyno made arrangements for us to have dinner at the casa, a fantastic decision, I will discover, verified at each dinner. The dinner table is arranged in such a way, it is one big L shaped family table. People get acquainted as they get seated and learn from one another, share experiences of the day(s), etc. What a brilliant idea. We meet a group of American hikers, who just climbed up to the San Pedro Volcano today. That is our plan for tomorrow. We meet an Israeli couple, the wife a teacher, the husband an IT person. We chat about lots of things from middle-eastern politics to human rights, from child abuse to the limitations in child protection in Israel to their visit to Turkey, on and on and on. When we are ready to collapse to bed and say our good-nights to our fellow diners, I don’t know what surprise the trio has for me upstairs across from our room.

I step out onto the terrace next to our room one more time, the sky is pitch-black. I recall how dramatically quick the sunset was. Over a stretch of 15 minutes or so, fading daylight turned into pitch dark. This must be the tropical/subtropical latitude. What a contrast with what I had experienced in Ireland around the same time of the year where the sun wouldn’t set until 11 pm or so, and even when it did, it never got truly dark to call it “night”, really. And here, now, way past dusk, millions of stars are blinking at me playing peek-a-boo with the scattered feathers of clouds in the sky. Just as I am appreciating this peaceful and gay night show, the scenery changes dramatically.

The volcanoes that were buried in the black of the night all of a sudden light up with a lightening that started somewhere to the north of Volcan Atitlan, their silhouettes outlined against the sky that turns steel blue with an unexpected series of lightening, which moves very swiftly to just behind Atitlan. From that point on, the volcanoes, the non-stop lightening and the clouds outlined by the latter are in an intense, almost violent dance. I have never seen so much lightening back to back in my life. Some are vertical as if Zeus has left Mount Olympus and is now sending his spears onto the earth from over Volcan Atitlan. Some are horizontal, following and outlining the lower border of a cloud hanging over the trio like a holly halo. Sometimes it feels like a vicious snake makes its leap across the sky from one volcano to the other. Some are diagonal as if they don’t know where to go, as if they are the fun-loving little brats of the lightening family. Every lightening that outlines the volcano nearest to it creates a moment of unforgettable grandeur. I can’t move to even think of grabbing my camera and memorialize this show. All I can trust is my visual memory to hold onto this for the years to come. I can now, imagine how the indigenous people of this lake might have generated a wealth of attributions of supernatural powers to this phenomenon that I am witnessing they lived with for many centuries, generation after generation.

We leave the window ajar, the lullaby the lake will sing with its playful dance with the boats and kayaks at the little dock and the rocks below the casa, I know, will sooth me to sleep instantaneously. As I put my head down onto the clean, comfortable pillow, the scent and the sounds of the water below bring back memories of a similar but more intense lullaby that the Atlantic had sung by “El Yunke Mar” on the northeastern coast of Puerto Rico. It was the first time Bill and I had gone to Puerto Rico. We had let some of our planning to adventure. Sure enough, it had paid us beautifully. We found this family run hotel in the local touristic magazine and called them on the way to the coast. I had liked Maria’s voice even on the phone. We were delighted to discover that the little hotel was literally sitting half way in the ocean, Atlantic would thrust itself against the walls of the foundation and the tiny beach with all its force all day and all night long. In that violent thrust, I had found such peace and soothing, closing the window had never been an option. It won’t at casa del mundo, either. The lake will be with me all night long, who knows what dreams its lullaby will bring to me.

This is how far our room is from the water vertically across the steep cliff.


I wake up after a restful sleep very early. Sun is barely up, I catch the lake even more tame than the night before. I walk all around the terrace, around other rooms at the opposite end of it, take in all of the lake. There is a light fog, the lake is almost reaching out up to the clouds. To my left is Panajachal, to the right is San Pedro, where we are going to head soon. Once I complete my tour of the terrace, marval at some of the plants I have never seen in my life, and say Good morning to all three volcanoes, I go down to have a cup of coffee before Zeynep comes down. Antonio is around, we exchange smiles. Breakfast is very healthy in every way with grains, fruit, yogurt, and nuts. We can now take off to explore this beautiful lake.

One of the many unique potted plants hanging in the terrace

GUATEMALA -4-

ON THE WAY TO LAGO DE ATITLAN  

At breakfast table, Maria is consulting with Zeynep (how sweet to see that she is becoming a doctor) about her cough that has been lingering for some time now. I mention her red eyes and raise a question about her blood pressure. She doesn’t know her blood pressure, not surprising. Zeynep recommends her to go to the clinic and see a doctor. She is convinced that she needs to do that. We clear the breakfast table, she leaves before us to get in line, we will stop at the clinic to give her the one key Zeynep will use to lock the outside door. When we arrive in clinic I am stricken with a ‘deja voux” feeling.  The waiting area is packed with people of mostly indigenous, poor Maya. There is almost no room to set foot on in the waiting area. I wonder how many physicians will attend to the needs of this some hundred patients (In the evening I will have a dream with a blond petite female doctor, who has to see some hundred patients in one day. She doesnt' seem to be upset, though, in fact pretty cheerful, too). I bet it is one single doctor, who will be able to dedicate only 5 minutes to each patient. I recall the days I had to go through a hundred or more patients in clinic in Turkey, way back 25-30 years ago (I had replaced only the color of hair in my dream, otherwise it could easily be me). It is much better now, the numbers are down to 40-50 patients per doctor per day in public hospitals, which is still way beyond what we have to deal with in the USA. How can a doctor dedicate the WHO minimum of 20 minutes to each patient under these circumstances? Then, how can a doctor avoid making mistakes and not miss important diagnoses?

Maria with her red eyes, not feeling well

Zeynep meets some of her volunteer friends outside the clinic. This is the clinic where Zeynep volunteered as well. She and all her friends are concerned about the corruption eroding the Spanish schools and volunteer programs that attract scores of American students to this community every year. They believe, of the large sums of funding that flow into these schools, some (very little) is paid to Spanish teachers, and after the cost of the overhead (very little) is deducted, the rest flows to the owners of the school systems, most of which in theory, needs to be funneled to the community through volunteer projects. Zeynep says, whatever volunteer project they come up with to conduct, the string holders say "We dont' have money for that." Poverty, in many circumstances brings the worst out of people, especially of a select group of smart, opportunistic ones. Corruption is everywhere, as one colleague who had done a rotation in the poorest region of Turkey many years ago had put it “Lift any stone, you’ll find exploitation underneath.” We will experience many examples of such throughout the week across the country.

Patients waiting in front of the clinic underneath Zeynep's school


It is time to depart. Xela soon will be a pleasant memory. Our shuttle picks us up at the door, alas I won’t be able to experience the chicken bus adventure. We have lots of luggage since Zeynep had been living here for 6 weeks now. Shuttles pick up their customers from their “door” and deliver to the “door” of their destination. I am sure us Gringos created a market for this, but with so much weight, I can’t help feeling grateful for this convenience at this point. Shuttle service is very expensive for the locals, who, thus, prefer the chicken buses, there is a tenfold price difference between the two, it is still quite reasonable for us US dollar spenders. Door to door delivery, thus taxi service included makes the price very acceptable. I get a bit anxious seeing that the shuttle is 15 minutes late. But nobody else seems to be, including my daughter, who becomes one of the natives wherever she goes in couple of weeks, anyway. Apparently this is the norm here, nobody gets concerned about delays unless it is more than 30-45 minutes! Eventually, it does arrive as everybody has been telling me, ending my anxiety. We are loaded onto the mini-bus, comfortably heading toward Panajachel, one of the quirky towns on the north coast of El Lago de Atitlan.

It is so fun to see how elegantly Zeynep is leading us through this trip. Except for the airport hotel for our last night, she arranged everything for us, made the travel plans and took care of transportation and accommodation reservations. This is our first trip abroad together and our first trip, during which she is making decisions for both of us and taking care of me. It looks like it takes 25 years for the offspring to start making decisions for the parent. It feels good, it will feel even better as the week goes by seeing how sensible, smart, fun, and adventurous decisions she made for both of us. I’ve believed throughout my career that every pediatrician must have a child since the best teacher a pediatrician can have is his/her own child(ren) to learn from. Zeynep has taught me more than anybody else on how to take care of, treat, and learn from a child to become not only a better parent but also a better pediatrician. I feel blessed with that opportunity. And this, two-way cross-learning, over the years, led the way to a sweet, precious friendship, which I treasure more than anything I have.

Here is my girl, who has become my best friend and guide at age 27

Boats are lined up along a make-shift looking pier, but I know well from similar piers in Turkey, this is their one and only pier for this town. We are getting on the boat that is ready to leave. I have been curious about where they would store our four-piece luggage. Zeynep asked me to bring a spare luggage for her to bring her Guatemalan acquisitions home. And she acquired quite a bit. I am no better than her, though. I already bought a beautiful, 100% wool blanket from one of the vendors at her school. I want to make sure my blanket is safe, more than anything else. But there is a problem, the captain is throwing our luggage one by one on top of the canvas covering the seating area.  The metal bars surrounding the canvas are barely 6 inches high. I am hoping they will tie them to the metal bars or something. Nope, none of that. I can’t help expressing my worry a bit. The captain is adamant they are safe.

I look at Zeynep, she has already gotten used to the ways of locals in Guatemala, she shruggs her shoulders. It looks like I am on my own on this. After couple of exchanges about our, rather my concern about the luggage and the captain’s dismissal of my concern, I give up a bit anxious, but only after buckling Zeyno’s backpacks to my luggage and one of the bars! I am sure the captain is murmuring to himself “God help me with these Gringos”. Zeynep is sure he swore at us in his Mayan language when the unbuckling makes him lose a precious minute or two at our final destination. Looking back how the luggage didn’t move even an inch through all the waves that soaked us thoroughly despite the tarp the assistant captain gave us and leaps the boat made, I regret I didn’t submit to captain’s confidence. The last impression I'd like to make is that of a typical North American, and unfortunately, in their minds, I did exactly that. Too late now, all I can do is to trust my captain on the way out. Surely, in two days, on the way out, they throw our luggage on top of the canvas, I jump in the boat without even glancing at where they landed...

Here is our captain, not very happy with me

I turn my attention to our “castle” that will be the highlight of our travels. Casa del mundo: House of the world. It is indeed the house of the world, owned by an American man and a Guatemalan woman, who are married. The house is run by their son, I learn from Zeynep. The customers we will meet over the two dinners we will have there will be from all over, Israel, Germany, USA, Canada, Spain, Portugal, on and on, and on. We start climbing up the stairs leading to the house nestled into the rocky sheer cliff akin to an eagle’s nest. Zeynep has one of her backpacks and my carry on, I have one of her backpacks, and my main luggage, the heaviest piece is lying on the dock. We hope somebody can help us carry it up. Hundred some steps, each at least a foot high, take my breath away, literally; by the time I am at the reception desk, which is also the pay station of the restaurant, where we will have our dinner soon, I am totally out of breath. Luckily, there is a small but sturdy Mayan boy around, willing to carry our last piece of luggage to our room. I feel sorry for him, he doesn't know what he is getting himself into, but what can I do? Glad that he is there. Zeynep explains the young man where the luggage is, we all head in different directions, he down to the dock, we up to our room.

This is how steep the cliff into which casa del mundo is carved.

GUATEMALA -3-

MARIA MAGDALENA      

  

Finally we arrive at a Spanish style old house blocked off from the street with big blue metal gates, the house, where Zeyno has been living for the last five weeks with a woman in her 70s, Maria Magdalena. Her two children live in America, the other two in Guatemala, one of which is in Xela offering Maria Magdalena several grandchildren visiting her on a daily basis. The big metal gates allow entry into a court yard after quite some screeching and squeaking. Cement covers the ground in the court yard, around which are several doors painted with bright greenish blue. One of the doors opens into a room with a bathroom in, the largest of the rooms Maria is renting out to the students of the Spanish school Zeynep attended for four weeks. The floor is covered with textured flowery tiles. Although it looks pretty dilapidated, I will discover later on that this room actually is the ‘luxury suit’ compared to the rest of the house.

The second door opens to the main house with three rooms and a kitchen. One of the rooms is Maria’s bedroom, in which is the only bathroom in-house, saved for her own use. Tenants are assigned to use a shared bathroom, which is out in the yard, akin to the squatting homes in Turkey. Zeynep and I will share her bedroom for the one night I will stay there, just for the sake of getting to know how at least a local actually lives and also to avoid the potential bed bugs that are routine residents of most hotels in Guatemala, I hear. I do check the bathroom out in the yard, my goodness, I would have to clean that place for two days before being able to use it. I can understand, now, why Zeyno was doing sponge baths during the week and taking her showers at hotels during her weekend travels for the last 4 weeks. I will wait to take my real shower at Casa del Mundo, to which we will move tomorrow. Sponge bath before going to bed will have to do in this house.  I am embarrassed with my American way of feeling and thinking, but I can’t bring myself to getting in there to make myself dirtier than I already am having flown for half a day.

My humble bedroom of one night

Fortunately, the tenants of the ‘luxury suit’, who are Zeynep’s friends from the Spanish school keep their door unlocked so that we can use their bathroom, the toilet, that is, very happily, it is clean. Zeynep is very comfortable, not the way I was sensing she was feeling during the first couple of weeks of her stay here. She is so as-a-matter-of-factly in a very sweet way. “Well, at first it is hard, the concept of hygiene here is totally different than ours. After being a bit frustrated for about a week or two, you come to terms with this, accept the fact that you must consider anything and everything you touch will be dirty and develop a way of protecting yourself without asking for too much from the locals.” Hence, all the plastic garbage bags covering surfaces to create a lining for toiletry, for clothes, for sheets, for electronics when they are not in use… Human kind can be extremely creative.

Maria Magdalena is a chatty, affectionate woman, who has prepared tea and watermelon for us, before dinner, for my arrival. It is clear that she likes Zeynep. Zeynep already has told me lots about her and how she developed a grandmother granddaughter type of a relationship with her over the last four weeks. I am grateful for that knowing how important my mother has been in Zeynep’s life and how painful it still is for all of us, but much more so for Zeynep to see my mother disappear gradually toward her end after a very unfortunate car accident. She was telling me on the phone how she was spending most of her free time with Maria, chatting with her, watching TV together lying at the opposite ends of the same sofa, like family members. Her American friends were astonished with how close a relationship Zeynep had built with Maria, when it felt so natural to Zeynep since these had been just some of the things she had done with her grandmother as she was growing up.

                                           Maria and Zeynep

Maria and I exchange a few appreciative sentences to express our mutual gratefulness. I can use my Spanish! What a wonderful satisfaction it is to be able to communicate in another language other than Turkish and English, both fully part of me now. A kind of rejuvenation. I decided to learn Spanish a few years ago and gave it a try on several occasions, which helped me with establishing a background for it. But my real effort started after Bill’s death. The pain was so hurtful, I had to do something with myself to reduce it to a bearable level. I increased my exercise program to every day, helped a bit but not much. I started taking out Spanish teaching CDs from the local library to listen to in the car, after all that was when I was most exclusively all by myself and with my thoughts and my sadness. It helped tremendously, to my pleasant surprise. I then signed up for a Spanish class at the university for the spring semester. It was indeed working. That is how I decided learning something new that requires all of you is, if not THE, but one of the best remedies to grieving the loss of something or somebody special.

Of course there will come times I will be at a loss with what Maria was saying. Zeynep knows me all too well, reading my facial expression will come to my help right away. I can’t believe how Zeynep’s Spanish has sky-rocketed in only 4 weeks. Her accent sounds like she has lived here all her life. Her intonation has the same musicality of the locals. When I get out of the picture, Maria and she carry on a beautiful conversation, only half of which I can understand. I gradually start getting a sense of who Maria is. It is clear that this woman is not of low SES. Even if her house and the way she runs her financial affairs are similar to the lowest of the low in America (even in Turkey), her manners, body language, and the way she treats us are more attitudes of the middle class. Zeynep verifies that she actually is a middle class woman in Guatemalan standards. It is heart breaking to see the distinct divide between the living conditions of the middle class in America (even in Turkey) and in Guatemala even if there isn’t much difference between how people from the same SES, pretty much all over the world, think and feel.

Maria has other tenants in her upstairs rooms that are accessible from the same courtyard. The next morning, I see one of her tenants getting out of the bathroom in the courtyard. So that place, in worse condition than any port-a-potty I have seen in the USA is indeed used by her tenants and not only for a pee squatting up in the air but for a shower, too!! The guy getting out of the bathroom is akin to his tiny self, expelled from his mother’s womb a few decades ago. He didn’t even bother using a towel to cover up himself if what I unexpectedly catch with the angle of my eye is not an illusion. He just walked the few steps across the yard in his natal attire; I wonder whether this is Latino machismo, or not expecting anybody awake at that hour of the morning, or simply an innocent choice of a naturist.

Fig tree and figs in the rear corner of Maria's courtyard

GUATEMALA -2-

QUETZALTENANGO and GUATEMALA CITY

After Guatemala City, my first stop is Quetzaltenango, the place of the bird Quetzal, an ugly looking bird resembling a parrot with a long, long green tail, the icon for Guatemala. Xela, the nickname locals gave it is in a way becoming to it. I never thought a town in a developing country like Guatemala could sprawl like this. My daughter with her new-found Mayan “persona” meets me at the bus stop/terminal. With her white-red flowery asymmetric long skirt, her long red tear-drop shaped ear rings, her hairdo with her locally woven bandana, I couldn’t tell her from a Mayan mixed with a splash of Spanish blood. I take a picture of her, she fakes being upset, how sweet. She must indeed feel like a local and I am acting like a Gringo tourist, of course.

                                                   Quetzal, icon of Guatemala


She guides me through the eclectic streets of Xela. We walk on a divided boulevard, an “avenida” for a while, then find ourselves on a narrow street with sidewalks not even two feet wide, two cars barely fitting side by side, houses rising right by the end of the narrow side walk leaning against one another, color being the only identifier to differentiate one house from the other. We pass through the market place, buy local bananas, small, plump ones just like the local bananas we used to have in Turkey. Globalization brought the Chikita bananas, who knows from where, and local bananas are long gone in Turkey, now. There is so much in this town that reminds me of my activist days from 30 years ago when we used to visit the squatting communities, the gecekondu neighborhoods of Turkey to educate and politicize the working class, the migrants of the time. I breath in the same survival mode in this city. And this is the second largest city of a country.

Sprawling Quetzaltenango


Gradually, we move into residential areas. “Taller de mechanica”, auto mechanic shops sneak into even residential areas. I will discover soon when we ask a hardware store keeper that these shops are one of the hallmarks of Guatemala. I will continue being appalled with the overwhelming number of auto mechanic shops scattered all around the country throughout my stay. There is a reason for that, too, of course. The dilapidated, falling apart school buses not fit for use in the USA apparently are shipped to Guatemala. These shops fix them up miraculously and paint them into designs and cheerful colors that will become the colors of Guatemala for me in such a short time span.  These buses then become “chicken buses”. Now don’t assume they are used to house or transport chickens. They are used for transportation of humans but just as chickens are packed into a hen house. Two-person seats accommodate three. A make-shift seat is created mostly on the spot by a box or a luggage between the two seats to accommodate another traveler that completes the row to 7 seats instead of the usual 4 that it was designed for.

Chicken buses imported from America in Mayan colors

I will hear Zeynep’s friends chat amongst themselves “…. I changed couple of chicken buses….” describing how they travel to places. Chicken buses, referring to locals being carried to places like chickens. I am sure us gringos came up with that term. This is how we see them, when it is a way of life for them. How to change this? Is it possible? I ask my daughter what her observations have been about the discrepancy between the poor and rich in this country. She states it is huge and that in fact she hasn’t had any contact with the rich since they all live in huge homes walled off from the rest of the community in court yards reminiscent of the days of colonial times. She states, through her Spanish school and the volunteer work she has come into contact with only the poor and needy in the country. Intellectuals and the rich enjoy and protect from outsiders a totally different life style than the mainstream. She verifies what I read in my Lonely planet book that this society is highly hierarchical in terms of ethnic and socio-economical status and stratum;  pure Mayan indigenous unfortunately occupying the bottom of this almost-cast system.

Didn’t I observe that in Guatemala City as well as I stayed with my colleague? She, living in Zone 9 or 10, parts of Guatemala City, where the upper middle and upper class families live, with her gym, her shopping center, etc, nearby, traveling to the city only for work. How different things were in the shopping center she took me compared to the Parque Central where the presidential palace was located with almost exclusively the indigenous people spending a leisurely Sunday at the street market and around. I will remember three things clearly among others from Guatemala City:

Presidential Palace was the very place where all political prisoners were tortured in Guatemala during the civil war. My jaw dropped! I am used to, from Turkey, the tormenting fact of torture being part of the political panorama. However, in Turkey, torture is conducted in concealed, distant places that would be difficult for lay people to either consider or discover. Performing this worst atrocity to fellow men under the roof of the very institution that is supposed to protect all citizens from maltreatment is such a bold statement: “I don’t care about democracy and the rights of all men and women, and I don’t give a s… that somebody may not like this!” My stomach turns, my head spins with disbelief and anger. Luckily she says those days are in the distant past. Let’s hope so…

            
              Presidential Palace, Guatemala City

Secondly, we bumped into a religious parade at the Capitol Square, which I am almost sure would never happen in my friend’s neighborhood however intensely religious they may be. Religion is for everybody, some may say, but more so for the poor, especially in this form that I am observing: Life size puppets of Christ, Mary, and saints on floats with clergy and lay people parading together; such symbolic expression of religious life. Passers-by cross their chests with the images they observe with an expression of full submission on their faces. They need this, how else could they endure what they do? Ruling elite knows this well; thus they need this, too, how else could they keep the poor content with what little they have?

But one scene will never go away from my mind’s eye. We are walking on the main street. Within the crowd is a trio: A young man and a woman, the man courting the woman, his eyes fixated on her. She is looking away, but her eyes are revealing how much she is enjoying his attention and likely, words, too. The third element of the trio is a boy of 8-9 years of age. It is clear he is with them, but he is looking away, too, as if he is forced to be there, but feels uncomfortable to be there. Scenes, some visual, some heard from individuals, related to the courting traditions in the lower SES or rural communities in Turkey come to me flying from decades back. I bet the little boy is the guardian for the young woman when the couple, in the process of getting married is allowed to get to know one another better. Love and affection to see in the eyes of young people elate my spirit one more time that there is hope. People continue loving and falling in love, that is good news…

Colors Maya taking over a Turkish girl: Zeynep the Mayan