On the third day of my adventure to Huehuetenango at the border of Mexico, I woke up in a desert heat in a house of polite and friendly strangers-becoming-friends. It was Monday morning. In a few hours I would head to Huehuetenango, the capital of the province, to start a week of work, Site ID. I woke up heavy, sad maybe lost, not sure how the proportions come out but definitely: heavy. The day before was incredible, a Sunday where we drove to the border of Mexico for lunch. But today I had dipped back down into the low-point that is this massive roller coaster called love and heartbreak, called Peace Corps, called transition. Called experience.
I brushed my teeth in my typical morning haze and went downstairs to find my friend Doña Rosa eating breakfast with her niece at the large dining table. Rosa’s sobrina Colocha got up to serve me breakfast, a quesadilla with spicy cheese, and while I sat at the long, wooden dining table I observed how fancy this house, kitchen and family are. They have helpers for every different part of the house. A helper to watch after two year-old Antonio (she looks 12 years old), a muchacha/cook in the parents’ kitchen and 2 muchachas working in the bread shop and cake shop downstairs. It’s a lot of muchachas at any given moment. And it’s a weird culture shock for me because my host mom used to work as a muchacha in the capital. Now the muchachas are serving me instead of being my host family, so the feeling is odd.
Doña Rosa smiled and asked me: “How did you sleep?” and I said: “Muy bien, gracias!” I opted for that over “Heartbroken and uncomfortable in the heat.” But it was a really nice room and nice house, I just had a rough night.
After breakfast, Doña Rosa said she had some errands to run in Las Something honestly I don’t remember- Chambas? tal vez? – and that I would go with her. “Sure!” I said. And we left in her red pick-up truck. I used to have a red pick-up. Women who drive red pick-ups are special. You know why? They don’t settle. And when the truck has a manual transmission, they even less so (read: Doña Rosa is strong). We made our way, in the heat and mystery of the nature of Huehuetenango, to Mexico again. I asked: “Will I have to get my passport stamped again?” and she said “No no no!” But still I was unsure… Going across the border once, without Peace Corps’ permission, was enough risk for me. Twice was too much for even this former red pick-up driver.
Apparently, when you live on the border, you can do your shopping in Mexico and live in Guatemala as a custom. The thing is: you can find more products in Mexico, or different products, AND you can get everything cheaper. Know why? The quetzal is worth 7 USD (roughly) and the peso is worth even less (at the moment), 2.5 pesos to every quetzal. So like 14 and some pesos equal 1 USD.
I learned about Doña Rosa that she likes to shop. First we stopped at a PACA where ‘ropa americana’ was sold. I casually ventured through the aisles and piles but nothing stood out to me. I saw a romper/jumper that fit me almost perfectly and I put it back on the rack. I said: “how much?” the attendants response was: “en pesos en quetzales?” Imagining living that way, between worlds and currencies. I think it must be like that on any border.
After about 40 minutes, we walked 5 minutes up to another PACA (owned by the same guy).. and Rosa bought king size sheets. The owner called it “King size” but pronounced it so differently than English that it made me chuckle internally. Then start to sing Rihanna’s California King Bed. Then I passed a pile of packaged blankets by Better Homes and Gardens, the same exact brand that the caballero I was dating just bought for me right before we broke up. It made me sad. I couldn’t unsee them. I just stood there, staring at the blankets and the variety of patterns, in a warehouse on the border of Mexico. Doesn’t matter if you leave the country, you bring your heart with you. King Size sadness.
Next, we hopped back into the red pick-up and drove to the border. Actually, the border isn’t a line, it’s an area. And in that area between Mexico and Guatemala there is a grocery store. So they didn’t expect me to get my passport stamped… We walked inside and Doña Rosa grabbed a cart. OKAY so this wasn’t going to be a quick trip. Somewhere between the toallas humedas (wet wipes) and the toallas sanitarias (pads) I couldn’t fight the tears anymore. I walked through the aisles and wiped my tears on my sleeve, or my fingers to my pants, whatever was available, and I cried.
The ‘ugly cry’ grabbed hold of me but I tried to keep it fairly calm because I was in public. So I tried to damper it and let it out at the same time so I just passed through the same aisles, gently draining all water from my system, eyes crinkled up, sad. Occasionally I passed Doña Rosa as she made her way through the aisles buying things for her store. Eventually I realized what I needed: tissues. So I looked up ’tissues’ in my dictionary app and found ‘pañuelitos.’ Then I walked up to the pharmacy and requested pañuelitos with Doña Rosa and the attendants looked at us, paused and said: “Kleenex?” Go figure. So I bought four small packets, and because I didn’t have pesos, Doña Rosa just bought them for me. I wanted to buy them but it was just easier for her to do it.
She left me again with her full cart to get one other thing, and I stood by the cart and tried to pull myself together. Now I had tissues. I thought to myself: “How beautiful to have shared a love worth crying over in a super market on the border of Mexico.” And, well, that thought only further supported the case for tissues. She returned and we wheeled our cart to the check-out at the bright entrance.
As we left, we passed the refrigerated drinks and I saw something I hadn’t seen in forever: Dr. Pepper. The color of maroon and happiness inside of a can. I stopped drinking alcohol and I drink more soda.. (or just as much). Yes, I really like soda. So we bought two, one for her and one for me, and I checked the sugar on the label. Yep 26 grams, give it to me. And we checked out and walked to the car. Then we stopped by the entrance to the parking lot and she left me with the bags again to get something else. When she returned, we piled our bags into the truck and made our way. The chicken meat she bought from the store was still in the back. I’m glad no one stole the chicken, but I wondered if it was getting hot under the desert sun.
Then we got into the car and I cracked open my DP immediately. We had finished our errands, and I had finished crying in public (for the day). When we got back home, carne asada was prepared with thin, wide tortillas, vegetables and salad. It was delicious but the meat was tough to chew. After lunch we were all hot and stuffed, Doña Rosa and Colocha took a nap on her bed. I wasn’t tired, so I called a friend from home and explained the supermarket scene I had just performed and what I was feeling. Friends are the best.
As I stood on the second story of this house, I looked at all of the laundry drying on the zig-zag clothesline and lamina roofs below us. The clothes must dry in five minutes from the heat. I took in the beautiful silver washing machine. It looked like a Mercedes Benz. My hands are my washing machine and have been for the past two years, gracias very much. I’m not sure if I felt any better after the phone call, or more upset, because sometimes talking stirs it all up inside and leaves it there. But at the same time, how could I feel worse? I was already pretty much there.
It was time to go. I gathered my things and made my way down the shiny tile steps of Colocha’s house. I found the ladies downstairs talking to a representative from the bank in the front of the bread shop. Oh….. loans…. that’s how all of these bread/cake shops are happening (I reasoned). Then I told Doña Rosa I had to leave, kissed all the cheeks, dispensed many thanks for all of their generosity, time and hospitality, and accepted with gratitude their invitations to come back (which do thrill me and I hope I take advantage of!!) and waited at the edge of the house just below the shade for the camioneta. Q20 to Huehuetenango they said, so I got my bill ready.
Rosa handed the ayudante my bag and told him to drop me off at the hotel, which, two hours later he forgot to do. I kept my map open on my phone and to my surprise the hotel appeared on it. When I saw we were close, I asked to bajar. He brought my costal from the front of the bus, complete with a zipper thanks to Doña Rosa’s gift to me, and I used my GPS to walk to the hotel. You can do things like that in more developed parts of Guatemala, I guess…
And I met the group from the States for the work week: Philip, Stacy and Walter. We went to dinner and Walter and I compared notes on Peace Corps service (his ended in 2000). The biggest difference is all of the security restrictions I have to follow, but there are many more… We lived two completely different services. I live in a Mayan community, he did not. I live with a host family, he did not. I have internet, he certainly did not… He is a man, I am not (this point is very important though obvious). The list goes on and on! But that’s the beauty of life, no two things are alike. And I was up late but eventually dozed off. The hotel was a little quirky and funky, but aren’t all hotels I end up in these days? How would this week go? Would I need to fall apart in a corner or hide my face behind tortillas?
The next morning I did not want to move, so I was later than the rest. Can you blame me? I’ve lived here two years, what is punctual anymore? Yes you can blame me. It was my fault. And we left for McDonald’s to pick up drive-through coffee which was a certain luxury. I would be translating for a professional hairstylist, many terms I do not know… More of the unknown.