A first impression fest indeed.

Santa Clara: 

I don’t know what this map means except that the lake is shaped like a fleeing flea. Or perhaps a cow leaping. Or maybe like a lake.

My site is centrally located, sunny and beautiful. When I flipped over the manila folder to read my fate, I couldn’t have been happier. Almost like it was too easy: I got more than what I could have hoped for.

Sololá is one of 22 departments (states) in Guatemala. Lake Atitlan, popular attraction, is in the center of the department. The capital (Sololá, Sololá) sits on the lake as does Panajachel, also a tourist attraction with a party scene and a boat-full of ex-pats to boot. I’ve heard that Sololá was a coveted department of several volunteers (lake, party, ya know..). While I don’t care about being close to a party (since a US American offered me cannabis simply based on my accent my first time there) (no thanks), I’m grateful for the location. My site is 75 minutes in a careening microbus from the capital (the ride costs 12q, less than 2 US bucks) and 15 minutes more on a camioneta to Pana for 3q (50 US cents). For some volunteers, it takes a downright eternity to get to the office for more trainings, etc, but it’s only 3 hours from my site Gracias a Dios.

On Arriving to My New 2-Year Life:

We tugged across the moutainside of Sololá, just as windy as the MGM ride Back to the Future: remember it?
The row I sat in faced backwards, so I was observing the landscape in retrospect.

We had just dropped off Pearlene and one of her Socios (host country work partners). I briefly met her family, wished her well and delivered my leaking red wine in a plastic bag to their trash can (oops). It kinda splashed a few drops onto the plastic floor of the bus and I thought better to dispose of it before leaks lead to incrimination. Alcohol is a sensitive issue here in Guataholla, a topic for another post. But the gesture of throwing my wine in the trash, however seedy it seems in the context of this story, represents the dislodge of yet another comfort and coping mechanism. Moving on.
Alas, I felt like I was sending my oldest child to the first day of kindergarten. If Pearlene and I were close friends, it would have felt even more like separating velcro. I was grateful it wasn’t so emotional of a goodbye because there was already enough stimuli to go around. But I still felt it, goodbye Pearlene, goodbye English, goodbye training and onto real life.

As we drove away from Pearlene’s site, me still facing backwards like Dumbo at the end, I felt a page turn in the story, the narrator honed in on me. I could sense the clouds and the characters in the bus lending their pens to the story of my site arrival. The remaining sojourners: 2 socios, me, the driver, and all my stuff (minus the wine in Pearlene’s trashcan). A cloud crossed over the mountain and we were driving through mist. The lady socio (Pearlene’s, not mine) was chatty but only to a whisper, as if she was honoring the arrival of the cloud.

Driving through a cloud is interesting: you can see but you can’t, it’s foggy but it’s diaphanous, so I think mist is the most accurate word.

If I had to guess, looking backwards and into a cloud is the best way to start this experience: I don’t know what I don’t know and I can’t see things except what’s cloaked in misty white. Another beginning.

My Socio (Work Partner):

Ronaldo: He is my key to the community. He sits up front dozing off. 2 of my work partners were supposed to come to training but only Ronaldo came. I first met my work partner on accident, he walked out of his hotel room as I walked into mine (they were nearly next to each other, awkward). He said “Hola” and I dismissively responded before retreating to my room. Mistaking him for another vocal stranger, it wasn’t until check-in that I noticed he was a socio and what’s better MY socio. High-five on a great first impression.

He appears mid-30s, my height, kind but reserved and a little tired. During the four hour session on Sunday, there weren’t 2 seats available so we sat separated by the aisle. I worked as an Executive Assistant for 2 years in a hoity-toity office for a (nice but) hoity-toity firm and buzzed people in with a clicker and made my boss hoity-toity coffee. I swore I’d never find myself in this situation again. But what’s the first thing I do in my state of uncertainty? “Quieres cafe? Con azucar o crema?” Punch me in the teeth I mutter under my breath as I approach the shiny coffee dispenser. What’s the difference between being a good Southern hostess and betraying yourself? I ask you. I’m put in mind of gender roles as I fill the porcelain cups.

We ambled through training sessions, shy and awkward and cordial. That’s the word I’m looking for! Cordial- smiling in the vein of formality because manners are all you have in common. Half of the socios were women and I could talk to them with all the ease in the world, but I have a young, shy dude for a work partner. His Spanish is fast, unenunciated and hard to understand. I can tell he is unaccustomed to talking to language learners (which is fine) but it makes me doubt myself as I strain to understand him. During breakfast and lunch on Monday, conversation is stale to none. I notice that I’m not asking him much about our site, and he is not asking me much about myself. Am I allowed to ask personal question? So, are you married? That’s not meant as a come-on. You headed to Cancun for New Years? I eat tortillas and greet the other volunteers as they walk by with their socios like it’s the last time I’ll see them.

Once we’re in the office for more training, I notice him reading the K’iche’ greetings on the bulletin board. I’m near-desperately grateful the words are there. 2 months of training and I’ve never paid much attention, but these words are a connecting point to this man’s culture, home. My Ciudad Vieja family would watch tons of US movies dubbed over in Spanish. Every time I saw an actor I recognized, I bubbled up with enthusiasm. I would say: “Oh yeah, that actor is named Willem Dafoe and he’s also in Spider Man.” It took several installments of 6 Degrees of Separation for me to realize that my host mom didn’t care. She didn’t care who these actors were, they’re not in her culture. But when I saw those familiar actors, I think that’s what it was like for my socio to see his language on the board.

In the penultimate session, we learned about micro-aggressions in the workplace. We were tasked to share a time that we were treated improperly at work, and how it affected us. I turned awkwardly to my socio, here goes… I told Ronaldo that my old boss called me “ella” because in truth he sometimes called me “What’s-er-name.” When Ronaldo responded, he looked down at my nametag intentionally and said “Natalia, I can’t remember specific instances when someone at work made me feel targeted, but I do remember a teacher saying once that I didn’t matter. And that really affected me. But I hope that you have a wonderful work experience in Santa Clara..” and he launched into the familiar phrases the Guatemalans use in language situations “Estamos a la orden, cualquier cosa, con confianza, para servirle” They can pave a gold road with their tongues, I tell ya. By contrast, the art of conversation has in fact been lost where I come from. The point is: I appreciated him. I appreciated what he said and as cordial and uncertain as our relationship was, I began to trust it. Poco a poco.

In my last moments in the microbus, passing signs “Bienvenidos a Santa Clara” (I turned around at this point, getting too dizzy) Ronaldo searched my manila folder for my host families’ address (along with the rest of my near fate). He repeated their names back to me: Rosario and Clara and Clara (I’ve omitted their last names, but first names get you a ninguna parte in this town because everyone’s first name is Clara). Three generations of women under one roof, and me: La Sola Soltera en Sololá (The Only Single Lady in Sololá) I would quip with my host family in Ciudad Vieja.

With so little certainty I was paralyzed into tranquility, when truly I’ve never been so uncertain in my life. This was like leaving for college again, or maybe the first time I rode my bike without training wheels. I know myself more than when I rode my bike and left for school but.. Spanish, K’iche’, Culture Shock, Bucket showers, Fleas, Bartering. Plus I’ve just left a cratered box of red wine in an evangelical’s trash can and I’m not sure my socio likes me. Not only am I uncertain of the future, what if I get kicked out?!

My Socio told the driver where to stop and he hopped out, the only person I know in this town and I can hardly remember both his names. This man + now enters the lady in green who came out of her house to greet me. At first I think a lady in a red whipil approaching me is my host mom. I give her a hug and ask if she is Rosario, she says “Nice to meet you! But Rosario is my tia” and motions to a short, officious lady in green with tan skin and not quite reaching 5′ I’m guessing. I take in my future host mom and my future simultaneously.

My New Host Family: 

Lady Future is easily 4’8″ donning green traje: green whipil, corte and delantel (blouse, skirt and apron). The women of Guatemala wear this traje, but each town has it’s own ‘traje típico.’ I was thrilled to see her wearing a lively green hoping that was our regional color and pattern. She had her hair pulled back in a low pony tail, flowing down to her low back, rooted in flat black shoes. Her hair is tied in one of those bobble ties that kids wear back home. Funny and strange the things you notice first.

When I said goodbye to the driver, I made a joke that I got everything from the van except my chucho. He laughed. My last connection to the peace corps staff rode off in the microbus back to somewhere.

Host Mom did not stop to introduce herself or even smile, ask how I was doing, or extend her hand. Instead she immediately dictated how we would move the luggage inside, poco a poco so it doesn’t pesa all at once. She was more concerned with getting my things out of the street than introductions, as if we were in the middle of Times’ Square. We walk into the front room of the house. I notice tile and that everything is covered in towels, except for two tall wardrobes. She said “Okay, we will move your things here into the front room then we will carry everything up, little by little.” I followed orders as my socio helped.

We leave the front room through a black door that leads to the patio, each person with a thing or two in tow, and walk up cement stairs. As we walk up the steps/grados Doña Rosario says: “Despacio, despacio porque pesa mucho.” We reached the second floor and she pushes open another black door. My new hogar, the second floor appears to be all mine. The sun bounced off sparkling clean tile met by white walls and red and cream curtains that look like they belong in a moderately priced Chinese restaurant. I saw a table and a wardrobe, with a, wait for it, FULL-LENGTH MIRROR (a commodity and something I was certain I would have to buy), and in the next room, a mattress!

I was already in love with all the space and this beautiful brand-new apartment. 2 rooms overlooking the Calle Principal, my own bathroom and my own bright aqua blue pila. There must be a God.

I eyed the bed right away and knew it would be the ultimate test. I’ve been sleeping on funky springs for 9 weeks and I have weird skin cell phobias and some back issues. Gosh listen to me talk. But ’tis the truth. So I made mental note of the mattress for further inspection.

My host mom, Doña Rosario, officiously took my socio and I on tour. “Que perfecto,” “Que Bonito,” “Gracias Muy Amable” I said on repeat as I listened with care. I see my very short Abuelita-to-be shuffling behind us, hovering in the doorways. Rosario displayed the broom and the dustpan, explaining what each of them are for, opened the armoire, showed me the key, “Que perfecto,” “Que Bonito,” “Gracias Muy Amable” cooed Ronaldo y yo. She showed us the bathroom, just outside then next to my bedroom. She lifts the trashcan next to the toilet, an important fixture of every bathroom because you don’t flush paper here, you toss it in the trash.  “Oh there’s not any water in the toilet.” She quickly filled up a bucket from the aqua blue pila and poured it in the toilet. “I will get my brother to come fix the water, I don’t know why it isn’t coming down now.” We walked into my “living room” once more. I eyed Doña Clara at the doorway, gently supervising our tour. “I’ll just get you the keys” says my little but fierce Doña Rosario.  This was more or less Ronaldo’s cue. We bajared the stairs. “Despacio, despacio” repeated Rosario with caution.

Ronaldo and I stood by the stairs as he said goodbye: I felt like my attractive, distant cousin was leaving me. I hardly know the man but he’s the securest thing I have coming into this place. My host mom said something to him in K’iche and he left through the side door, made of nothing more but lamina and a padlock with string. I said “Adios!” again and it seemed superfluous.

I go back upstairs and all 4’5″ of Doña Clara approaches. She shuffles her feet in her sandals and waits for a quiet moment to approach. She looks up at me, front right tooth gone, and says through a smile “Hola. I’m Clara. May God bless you that you are here. I’m very ‘grande.’ I’m 88 years old.” She cracks a smile: “I’m going to die!” Laughter bounces out of her tiny frame and echoes across the tile.
I laugh because that was the last thing I expected to hear, and sober up: “No! You are not going to die.” I tell her that my Grandmother passed away this year at age 88. I told her that when I read that I was going to be living with her, I hoped that she would be like my new Grandmother. She said “ohhh!” and her eyes widened and she tried to tell Doña Rosario in K’iche that my Nana had 88 years when she passed but Rosario was on mission for something. I hope she told her later.

My Apartment:

Now: Doña Rosario took me on a key tour and a light switch tour. Every single lock (there are 5) and every single light switch. Off on, off on, open closed, open closed. She hands me a stack of 5 keys. She demonstrates how to crack the doors open for fresh air, and the small windows in each door. I knew I was supremely lucky to be in this apartment with all this space. The bathroom was nicer than the one I was just staying in in the city, brand new tile and A WATER HEATER IN THE SHOWER. I repeat: WATER HEATER, a blessed boon I will not take for granted.

“I’ll just get some hilo and come back.” I don’t remember what hilo is. She comes back with a small bundles of thread in a bag, each a different color. “You need these so you can enter your house quickly, this way you won’t be trying to figure out each key.” She says “Let’s do orange for this door” and begins to layer the thread back and forth. I said: “Necessita tijeras?” and she replies “I have teeth” and laughs at herself “Tengo dientes digo yo.” She layers each thread and when she’s done, I snip. I feel like I’m layering more than thread, I’m laying a foundation of friendship as we layer the thread simultaneously. She repeats herself and ticks off item after item of her mental checklist. So you tell me, do you want me to cook for you? And I tell her I’ll probably buy my own stove. And she says “Okay” I ask if she has a tambo, per the recommendation of my socio. She says “No but we’ll find you one.” Now will you eat dinner with us?” Yes I say, if that’s okay. “Está ; está biennnn mamita. No tongas peehhhna. Cualquier cooooohsa”

“The other balcony door should be orange, and what about your bathroom door? Red. The last one should be purple. Oh! What about the middle door?” “I don’t think it needs one.” And she says “Right! When you go to open the middle door, you can just think, ‘oh yes! this is the key without a thread!’ ” Then we’re back on tour, this time opening each door with the appropriately colored key. After the tour, she descends. “I’ll just go downstairs and let you arrange your things.”

“Que perfecto,” “Que Bonito,” “Gracias Muy Amable”

“Okay Mamita” she says and I go for the hug and kiss in the air, near the cheek. She says “I’ll go so you can arrange your things.”

Unpacking:

Article by article, I am reminded of all the stuff I so carefully packed to come here. I fold them back up and put them in the armoire. I think I see fleas come out of the blue suitcase so I grab my purple spray, I can’t risk it. Not in my fresh start. My thighs are RED with flea trauma by now.

1 hour later, I’ve made some headway and I hear “Holaaaaa” as Rosario appears. “Do you want to go to the market? When would you like to go? 5:30 or 6? Vaya está bien.” I make headway unpacking and dreaming up where I want everything to go. I fold clothes in the wardrobe, decide on piles and moving things around. Fleas cross my mind. I hope I’m not bringing them with me.

5:30: Rosario appears. “Ready to go to the market? Okay let’s just go down the stairs. Despacio, despacio.” As we walk down the street, Rosario greets her friends with a hint of glee. She laughs as she says hello to her neighbors in native K’iche. “e naaaaaa” she says to the people “Hello!” Or “E Naa Nan” if an elder female walks by. She translates everything as she goes, explaining the ‘saludos’ in K’iche’. I’ve heard them before but she tells me again. As we walk, she guards me with her arm so I know not to get hit. People love protecting me from cars here. “These are tuk tuks!” she says as the red cabs roll by “Dios es amor” displays a sticker. Everything is adorned in God regalia, this applies to every inch of Guatemala I’ve seen so far. Nothing Santa Clara can claim. I think it’s Catholic Kische.

We walk through the market, greeting locals “E naaaa” then ARIS grocery store and I ask her “should I buy these sponges here or somewhere else?” she shrugs, unsure. She tells me either that I can buy some from her or we can get them later somewhere cheaper. Either way, I pass. Poco a poco. The market is a big ole thing. Two stories high of a cement building with ‘ventas’ selling wares. She tells me the market days are Saturday and Tuesday. She tells me “Anything you need, you just tell me. Because the people here, they see you, they think you have plata and charge more. This is why I tell you, anything you need, you just tell me.”

30 Minutes Later, Just as the fever heats up of more unpacking, I hear “Señiiiiiiita” I see Doña Rosario’s through the small glass window of my door. “I’m just coming up here to get I’m-not-sure-what-she-said.” Then she points “See the moon?”. It’s the middle of the day. I look up: “Oh yes, I see it. Que bonito.” and she says “Sí I’ll just go upstairs and get it.” She passes me to the third floor. 3 minutes later I see her huffing a grand pile of wood on her back down the stairs. She was pointing at leña, not luna. Noted. I chuckle to myself.

I get back to my pile of stuff. I wonder if every day is actually this misty and Rocío sent me to a site that’s on a cloud. The “sun” is setting, dark fades up. I put fabric under my bed and try to eeerk it across the room without worrying my family.

30 Minutes Later, I hear a knock and see two friendly faces on the other side of the glass. “Hola!” It’s Anthony’s host family! Hello, hello! “Come in come in! So nice to meet you!” They are two ladies: one in their 20s the other in their 40s. They are both beautiful, shining and kind faces. I make sure to say my apartment is “Que perfecto,” “Que Bonito,” “Gracias Muy Amable” They smile and laugh, Veronica says “but the way you’ve arranged it so far is so nice!” pointing to the clothes I put in the armoire and I just accept the compliment. The place is hardly a place yet. I show them around and then they tell me about how many times Anthony moved his bed and offer me help. So sweet! We debate over where the bed should go and they confirm that it is quite nice where it is. They ask if I’ll be sad, and that I should come to their house for Christmas. They ask me if they can call me “Natty” Why is that a thing here? I say yes. Blech. They ask me where I am from and a few other questions and “leave me to dinner.”

Five minutes later, “Señiiiiita” “I’m just going to clean the bathroom because the girls told me it was dirty. It must have been my brother when he came to fix the water.”

10 minutes later, Rosario appears. She comes up ten minutes later: “We are going to eat dinner, are you ready?”

I eat dinner. I sit with her for an hour as she tells me words in K’iche. The Grandmother sits by the stove and laughs. The host mom says: “Come come come”/ eat eat eat “Con confiaaaaanza” “Con confiaaaaanza” You like atolito? You like arrozito? You like pollito? You like salsito? Vay.” (Vay, or Vaya, pronounced Vy means Okay!)

And we had our first meal together.

I snap a photo to remember this moment and slowly ease into my new reality. My new host family does the same.

A welcome dinner was never more welcoming, a reality never more real, a life never more brand-spankin’ new.