Xela notes

I had to put just one more photo of the chicken buses on here...See the women with bundles on their heads? All the women carry their packages like that. Babies tied onto their backs, aprons full of fruit or other things, money tucked inside their blouses.




















This is the church in the Parque Central. Central park. They are not called zocalo's in Guatemala. This church was rebuilt after the last big earthquakes in the mid-1700's, and looks like a wedding cake.

It was impossible to photograph the gorgeous clothes the women wear. Indigenous people do NOT allow photographs. This photo is a tiny portion of the entire picture I took, with the camera pointing UP, so as to not get in trouble with them. The skirts are blankets, wrapped around and tied on with beautiful embroidered belts. The belts wrap around the body about 4 times, and create tucks where money can be hidden. The women all wear aprons, with deep pockets, that match the cloth of the skirt. The blouses are rectangles, folded in the middle, with a hole cut in the center for the wearer's head. The embroidery style on the blouse, and the apron style tells which village they come from, or which ethnic group they belong to. By the end of the trip, I could generally tell where they lived.

Because we're here the week between Christmas and New Year's, the schedule is a bit wonky. Some businesses, restaurants and museums are closed, some are open strange hours, there are small parades of all kinds going on. Some of the businesses covered their floors with fresh pine needles, giving a fresh scent every where. The city doesn't allow buses or colectivos in the Parque Central zone, just cars, so the effect is that of a quieter city. But, two blocks over is bedlam! The streets remind me of San Francisco, up and down hills, but the streets are much narrower. Some are far too narrow for vehicles, which makes those neighborhoods very quiet.

I had garnachas for lunch New Year's Day: tiny little tortillas, fried, topped with chicken and crumbled cheese. There is no orange juice here! Because we're too high for fruit to be grown, it has to be bussed in. There are, however, plenty of cool weather veggies: onions, broccoli and carrots. Each night, we're in bed, under lots of cover by about 8:30. It's very cold, and no one has heat. The streets are dark, and we're not bar-hopping people. No bars around anyway. Except the disco next door to our little hotel. How lucky can we be?

The people are very friendly, and want to talk, even if they only know two words or English: Good morning! We don't see or hear another English speaking person in the whole city, the few other tourists we see are from Europe. But, I've had some good conversations with local people, with my newly (slightly) improved spanish. One day, we stop for lunch at a street market, a tianguis. I asked the man cooking on the open fire about something he was cooking, and we began talking. I was tickled pink that he understood me, and that I understood him! My verb tense knowledge is terribly lacking, but I'm communicating. His daughter arrived soon, bag of vegetables on her head, and he told me she is studying English in her high school. She's very shy, and wouldn't talk to me, though. They invited us to their house the next day, but we decline because we are committed to a hike up the volcano. What a special treat to even be invited!