From Mexico to Nicaragua, Part 5: Proyecto Linguistico Quetzalteco

DSC_5872

Hallway at PLQ

Each morning I would wake up in my small bedroom (yet probably larger than any of the other two bedrooms), organize my things, and groggily head out to the kitchen, where Noeimi, the grandmother, would put food before me. Both parents would have already left for work, and Alejandra and Ayline would be in their school uniforms. One morning we ate cornflakes with milk and sugar, and Ayline set a small bowl for the cat, filling it with cornflakes and placing it on the table next to hers. The cat – thin, elegant, orange-and-white striped – jumped up and sniffed at the cornflakes but was not impressed, despite his frequently-demonstrated love of tortillas, and so Ayline asked very seriously if he would like milk, and poured the bowl half-full. Satisfied, the cat deigned to eat with us.

DSC_5859

On my way to PLQ in the morning

After breakfast I would walk for five minutes down cobbled streets to the school, shuffling along the narrow sidewalk beside its long yellow wall and then pushing open the large, metal-framed wooden doors. Typically of Spanish colonial cities, the building containing PLQ is bland and featureless, fortress-like, from the outside; but the thick walls encircle a graceful colonnaded courtyard, ringed by high-ceilinged classrooms. Opening the main doors to such a building is like entering a secret paradise, particularly to those of us raised in different architectural surroundings, where a long blank cement wall probably indicates a boring collection of cement boxes lit by buzzing fluorescence, rather than a gorgeous private garden and elegant archways.

DSC_5868

The courtyard cafe, PLQ

After entering this beautiful place I would sit in the courtyard at a small pupil’s desk with my teacher, Domingo. The classes were one-on-one and lasted from eight until one, with a break at 10:30 for coffee and snacks. I sat down at the desk on the first day buoyed by my success with my host family, and exhilarated at the prospect of being back in school – a place, despite my disastrous experiences in pursuit of a master’s degree, that I still feel excited by and at home within. Domingo straightened his books and papers and folded his arms in front of himself on the desk, looking at me with level dark eyes. He wore a white tunic with embroidery around the neck. “So,” he said in Spanish, “Jennifer. Tell me about yourself.” And so I commenced speaking Spanish, uninterrupted, for five hours, for the first time in my life.

DSC_5866

Ben and his teacher

We talked about many things, including why I love the study of evolution, whether or not facebook is the devil, and how fucked-up American intervention in Central America has been. PLQ has a strong leftist bent (at the “graduation” dinner at the end of the week, we all belted out the song “Bella Chao,” whose chorus includes the declaration SOY COMMUNISTA!) and tends to attract students who have interests beyond travelling and holidaying; my classmates included volunteers with organizations back in America helping undocumented immigrants, volunteers with medical and humanitarian organizations in Latin America, doctors working in predominantly Hispanic neighborhoods in New York, and two hipsters from a bicycle cooperative in Minnesota who also had a largely Hispanic clientele. Then there was me: just driving through, man. Just staying a week. No plans. Never studied Spanish in my life. Passing through, passing on.

DSC_5851

An interesting collection of fellow students

We all became friends during the 10:30-11:00 a.m. coffee break/recess, when a bell would ring and we would all look up from our books and scramble for the little round café in the middle of the sunny courtyard. Inside there would be carafes of coffee and a huge basket full of approximately six types of sweet, airy breads, and we’d sit outside talking and balancing handfuls of the insubstantial pastries on our laps. I would unwrap my Tibetan shawl from my shoulders – the mornings were mountain-cold in Xela, but by the coffee break the air would have warmed up. Domingo and I usually moved our desk into the shade before resuming our lessons.

DSC_5846

Schedule of extra-curricular activities

In all, it was remarkably SCHOOL-LIKE. There was a wildly bearded man from Seattle who told me he’d never liked school before in his life, but finally, at PLQ, he was getting into it. “This is what it should have been like all along, man!” he enthused.

From Mexico to Nicaragua, an aside: Notes on Roads

A word about the differences between traffic in Guatemala and Mexico.

While camping in Oaxaca, beneath the palapas of a particularly friendly and sweet family that I hope to revisit on my way back up North (lord only knows when that particular adventure will happen, if ever, but you know, intentions for the future and so on), we complained to them laughingly about the excessive number of topes (large, ubiquitous, SERIOUS speedbumps) in Mexico, and asked whether Guatemala had many topes. The topes, it must be said, had become a running joke among us: the vast taxonomy of topes, from “shadow topes,” which are concealed by the lines of shadow that trees cast across the road, to “ghost topes,” which are topes that have been indicated by a sign and yet never actually manifest, to simply “oh fuck” topes which scrape horrendously along Cochita’s undercarriage and tailpipe. But when we asked our new friends about the tope situation, they replied in complete and concerned seriousness: No, there are not very many topes in Guatemala, and in fact it is a great concern and an indication of the inferiority of the country and its disregard for safety; how can roads be safe without topes? Guatemala, if it knew what was good for it, would invest as swiftly as possible in a sweeping program of tope reform. Topes for all!! Chastened, we dropped the subject.

At any rate, whether due to the topes or – more likely – to the increased poverty in Guatemala – the traffic over the border was immediately and profoundly more chaotic, mostly in the wild diversity of vehicles on the poorly-maintained single-lane roads. Everyone! Motorbikes (ranging themselves from powerful bikes with single riders, to rickety contraptions loaded down with multiple passengers plus a cargo of sugarcane or straw or towers of empty plastic bottles), pickup trucks with their beds crammed with people and luggage, lorries with bits of their overflowing contents flying off the top, cars of every shape and size and condition, wildly painted chicken buses, cartoon-like mini-buses on tiny wheels proclaiming LOVE JESUS on their windshields, horses, the occasional donkey cart, agricultural equipment, and every single vehicle scrambling aggressively to pass the rest of the traffic along twisting, dangerous mountain roads.

It wasn’t as bad as India, but actually, it was as bad as parts of India. And as beautiful: jungle now lining the roads, the traffic more dangerous but also more colourful, from the sunset mangoes cresting the top of a truck’s container, to the spectrum of t-shirts of passengers packed into pick-ups, dangling off of chicken buses, and clinging to the backs of motorbikes. Occasionally the mountain road would give us a slice of the view, hazy hillsides dense with forest.

Jane was driving, and she took it like a pro, gunning Cochita’s 1.6L of power to stay on the tail of passing cars, zipping past tractors and bicycles and snail-paced huge trucks then ducking back in the face of oncoming traffic. We drove all the way to Xela, without stopping, climbing to that beautiful mountain town where the streets are cobblestoned and precariously sloped and as narrow as the alleyways of Paris, forcing all of the cars to park with two wheels on the curb and two in the street and a prayer that the mirrors don’t get knocked off. Not that we didn’t encounter wild driving in Mexico as well, but it was mainly confined to the cities, where lane markings are regularly ignored in favour of cramming in an extra lane-and-a-half of traffic. (Truly, this seems to be a beloved tactic in most countries on earth – someone should get wise and maybe just paint narrower lanes.) And the cuotas (toll roads) of Mexico are fabulous, expensive but in better condition than many American highways, populated by fast cars that cost many times more than Cochita. Guatemala’s roads were the first taste of how deeply impoverished Central America is in comparison to North America (a continent which very much includes Mexico, in more ways than just road quality), and just how different each of these marvelous countries are. Mexico and Central America! Eight countries previously lumped together in my inexperienced mind as a vaguely Spanish-speaking mixture of jungle, beach, tacos, and a sprinkling of drugs and murder. You know, of course, that they’re all different. But you don’t really know, until you see for yourself.