Pie Crusts (on Latin Time)

This year my Thanksgiving (only about 4 weeks before I managed to publish this post) revolved around pie crust. I find this to be an interesting fact since before this year, I had never made a pie crust. I always thought that they must be utterly impossible since everyone I know (except maybe my cousin Jennie) makes pie crust in the checkout line of the local grocery store.

I decided that I needed to do something to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family to try to share just a little part of my culture since they have so graciously shared all of theirs. I began with the idea of a standard pumpkin pie. Can you guess what the problem was? For any of you out there who don’t cook (like me), you might not realize that 95% of pumpkin pies in the US are made with pumpkin out of a can. Not only does pumpkin pie from a cannot exist in Guatemala, pumpkin as we know it doesn’t either.

I tamed my fear of making the pumpkin filling from scratch only to be told several times that making pumpkin pie from a vegetable resembling a squat, green pumpkin wouldn’t taste very good. It was suggested that I try sweet potato pie. I jumped right to that idea without any hesitation because not only does pumpkin pie need pumpkin from a can, most recipes also call for condensed milk (from a can). I remembered that I had decided on Day of the Dead that sweet potato is the closest translation for the vegetable kamote. It’s not quite as orange, but the flavor is about the same.

On Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, I went into Antigua with two other volunteers,  two of us looking for American pie materials on market day. We waded through the people, squeezed through small halls jammed with people, vegetables and meat hanging from the ceiling trying to find courage to barter and buy kamote. We came to a more open section of the market where you could see more than the head of the person in front of you and the vendor next to you. There I purchased close to 6 pounds of sweet potato. I didn’t want to be lacking when I got home and I don’t know how to pick out only 2 pounds! We bought cinnamon and flour that were transferred from their giant bags to our little plastic ones. After a quick rest over chocolate milk at a small tourist restaurant Saberico, after our market day adventures, we boarded the chicken bus with our overflowing bags. We, tall, white, and light brown-haired girls, squeezed into the chicken bus with bags full of kamote. I can only imagine that we were an entertaining sight for the other bus riders (as usual).  

It’s a good thing that I have two wonderful American grandparents who take care of me so well here in San Miguel Dueñas. Tom showed me how he makes pie crust on Wednesday before my big trial on Sunday night. They also lent me tools like a rolling pin and a musher thing (I clearly don’t ever bake in the States) that are rather important in the pie process. On Sunday night, I began my pies. Pie crusts are frustrating. They like to break and tear and stick to the rolling pin. But after a pretty close fight, I came out a little whiter for the flour, but a champion. My pie crusts weren’t beautiful, but they were certainly functional.

With the help of my family to beat eggs and mush up cooked and skinned kamote, all by hand, the pies were ready to be transported to the oven. I say transported, because the oven in my house doesn’t work. Guatemalans don’t really use ovens, but fortunately for me, my host aunt two houses over likes to make cakes. Tom, Elizabeth, and Cousin Jennie will be proud of me because I even remembered to cover the pie crust rim for the first 40 minutes of the 60 minutes the pies were in the oven! I didn’t burn it (or myself)!

On Monday night, the whole family came over my host aunt and three of her sons, another host aunt, my host grandmother, and all 6 people of my family and I were all present. Marta, my host mom, bought tostadas to eat with the pie. My Guatemalan thanksgiving with tostadas, coffee, and sweet potato pie refreshed me. It brought me comfort in knowing that, yes in fact, I have built relationships here. I do have a wonderful and loving family. Even though I didn’t understand 90 percent of what was said around the table that night, I felt loved, welcomed, and thankful. Is this not what Thanksgiving is all about?

The Zoo!

On Friday, November 18^th, I went to the zoo with a bus full of teachers and kids. It was one of the colorful chicken buses, except that we had rented the whole thing just for us—for the whole day! The kids that came with us ranged in age from about 7 to 17. The older kids were paired with a teacher to help lead a group of 7 to 10 younger kids. Most of the kids had never been to the zoo before. Even one of the oldest students had never visited.

Needless to say, we were all excited. We had bread ham and ketchup sandwiches and orange juice packed for the morning snack, we were getting on our very own bus (still crowded), the kids were screaming different cheers, and all the teachers were with us leaving the library closed for the day!

It took about an hour by bus to reach the zoo. It was beautiful. There was grass—a rare occasion here if you live in any sort of town. Within a few minutes of finishing our snacks in the opening of the zoo, I saw a scene I might never forget—the waterfowl display. There were mallard ducks and flamingos among about 12 or 14 other types of water fowl from about 3, maybe four different continents in the same enclosure!  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I think I remained hung up on this image (as the number of pictures in my camera show) until I reached the snake house.  In stateside zoos, I remember, oftentimes there being one way glass in the reptile houses. But, that was certainly not the case here. I could see the snakes, and the snakes could see me. Even with the special glass, the different snakes give me chill bumps and yet I felt I was being pulled in for a closer look.

As I was leaving, I had a brief moment of panic when I stopped to try to read a sign. I misunderstood. At first, I understood the sign to be warning me of what to do if a snake should get loose—through the two way glass. A few minutes later, after I slowed my mind and my nerves, I realized that it was just an educational sign about what to do if you ever meet a snake in your path. At least, that is what I am telling myself it said.

Later on, I stood entranced, as if I was one of the kids, watching two monkeys fight. They screamed and swung by their tails. They tackled each other and raced round and round the cage among the 6 or 7 other monkeys. All the monkeys were tense. It brought to mind the scene from the movie, Mean Girls, where Lindsay Lohan acknowledges the difference in problem resolution between the animal kingdom and girl world. In her mind the antagonist simply dives across the table to tackle the others girls starting chaos in a high school cafeteria.

This monkey disagreement also reminded me of our human ability to take on too much and the way that makes us feel crazy inside. Crazy like this monkey fight—thoughts running around chasing each other tackling each other and screaming retorts and exclamations about inadequacy. All this monkey business passes in between our ears.

This moment, standing outside the cage watching my thoughts running around, jumping, and swinging dizzily somehow reminded me the beauty of not taking on too much, of refusing to be overloaded as our society might expect us to be. It reminded me to live simply, to rejoice in the beauty of life that God gave us, and to love one another as we should love ourselves, and to remember the power of the simple word “no.” 

I like concrete!

Everything here is constructed of concrete. I think the main house of Finca Santa Elena has, so far, been the only building used for living or business constructed of wood that I have witnessed. I have, in my few months here, discovered two wonderful benefits of buildings of concrete. I realize that both are concepts we are aware of in the states, but now, I know these things securely.

One. Houses of concrete can’t have termites. Have you ever thought about the power of termites? They have the ability to destroy houses that have been passed down for generations. These are houses that are old, but full of sentimental value.  They also enjoy devouring trees. For which Guatemalans have developed the habit of painting the bottom half of all the trees white—or in the case of the one in my house, the same color as the wall. Turquoise camouflaging for trees. Who knew?!

Two. When a pile of trash in the neighboring lot catches fire next to your wall (and very near my room), underneath the power lines, the result isn’t a totally fried house. Only some foul burning rubber and burning plastic smelling smoke, really fast Spanish, and the whole town permeating the house. The only thing wooden would naturally be the ladder that the firefighters use to climb the wall to reach the fire on the other side. Trust me. I know from experience.

If you are one of those people who has nightmares about your house burning down, just use concrete it has proven reliable. In the time that the fire in my house burned, at least half a wooden house would have scorched, but here, the fire didn’t even get eat more than the trash pile of its origin. With my room being the closest living space to the fire, I have decided that I am a fan of concrete! 

YAV PARTY NUMERO UNO!

On November 11^th, we, the YAVS of Guatemala gathered in the department (kinda like a state) of San Marcos in Guatemala. We had the privilege of spending four days on Finca Santa Elena where we learned to pick coffee, went hiking on the giant farm, rode in the back of a pickup truck standing up, talked about the two books we read (Silence on the Mountain by Daniel Wilkinson, and Never Again! Part of the REMHI project of the Catholic Church), Sang, ate too much, prayed, but most importantly (and enjoyably) hung out and shared stories!

I realized in this weekend together, the value of community, but also the impact of culture. All of us had stories of events that we didn’t quite understand or cultural behaviors that frustrated us but weren’t bad, just different. We talked about and truly understood each other as we expressed the difficulty, and yet desire, to build cross-cultural relationships. I had known that my life and experiences here so far had been stories in the making. I just didn’t realize how good it was going to feel to release all those stories to people who truly understood my perspective with open ears, who gave encouragement or challenged my ideas.

This year I find myself outside of comfort zones every day, and as a result, having a full weekend with four others who I hold near to my heart, truly brought me comfort and reminded me of not only whose I am, but who sent me here. It reminded me to be still and know that I am here—I am exactly where I am supposed to be. 

Party in the Cemetary

I was so excited for my first Guatemalan holiday, and Day of the Dead is a BIG deal.  I had been a little disappointed that in the previous week more of our educational materials at work had to do with the American Halloween than with the Guatemalan Day of the Dead, but the actual day was far from disappointment.

The cemetery was full of color and people. Going into the cemetery at 6:30 in the morning as some of the latest arrivals astounded me. It seemed that everyone greeted everyone with smiles and good mornings. I couldn’t help but wonder, at 6:30AM, how everyone was so happy in a cemetery (and at 6:30AM without coffee mind you).  

If I had to guess, 99.9% of the graves had been cleaned and repainted a few days before. On November 1^st, graves were swept, re-soiled and covered in flowers, confetti, and wreaths of varying colors. Some of the graves were above ground, some were new, others only marked by a wooden cross; some had trees growing out of them (which were well trimmed for the special occasion). When I think of a cemetery, I don’t often think of a place exploding with life and color, but on this day every cemetery in Guatemala filled this description.

Not only did my eyes feast on a scene full of life and color, my taste buds were overwhelmed by the variety of flavors in my food. For example, Fiambre is the name of a traditional Day of the Dead dish here in Guatemala. Almost everyone makes it their own way and almost everyone thinks theirs is the best. Fiambre has everything in it. It doesn’t taste bad, but the concept of turkey, chicken, every kind of sausage, hotdog, green beans, beets, pickles, cucumber, corn, baby maize, lettuce, radish, asparagus, cilantro, beef, lima beans, tomato, carrots, and peas all together in one dish is a little disgusting. 

Another traditional Day of the Dead food is the Mollete. For me, Molletes are like that piece of pie that you could probably, and secretly want to down in about two seconds because it’s so good, but you persuade yourself not to because you’re sad to see it go. I helped my host mom, Marta, make the molletes the day before. They are made with a special type of roll with sweet cream, raisins, and wine inside. After stuffed, they are rolled in really well beaten egg and fried in corn oil on the fire stove. On the second day, a slit is cut in the top and they are reheated in a unprocessed brown sugar and spice water/syrup in a bowl.

Kites are also a huge part of Day of the Dead. Everywhere you look for days leading up to, and after, November 1^st, it is possible to spot at least one kite. In the afternoon I counted at least 35 coming from the same cemetery. Some are the size of my head while others, entered in different competitions, can be bigger than a few people high. Most of the kites are made of tissue paper,  lightweight wood and cost less than a dollar depending on size and shape.

The two moments that I treasured the most this day were flying kites with my host family on the roof of the house and visiting the fair in a cemetery near by my town.  The fair on a dirt soccer field was exciting to witness, not to mention that for the first time since I have been in Guatemala, Julianne (other YAV) and I just happened to bump into some Guatemalan friends we have made! It may sound small, but in a world where everything has been foreign and people don’t often speak English, these two tiny encounters proved that we are beginning to make our place here. We are actually managing to build relationships and to make friends. It was the first time that I was able to recognize that I can, that I am, and that I will continue to build trust and community here in a culture different, yet full of life and color, from my own. 

Peace Procession

Last night, from 7pm to about 10pm there were a couple hundred people of all ages crowded between a pickup truck carrying giant speakers and a cart carrying a well decorated white float with the Virgin Mary. The procession walked, chanted, prayed, and sung between each of the four points of the town.

My host mom, two sisters and younger brother took me out on the street behind our house to join the procession near the end of the journey. It was a wonderful experience. Most people had two or three white balloons or a white candle. Some had attached their balloons to the top of their umbrellas or sticks to get them higher in the air.      

Many of you maybe surprised to hear that right now in Guatemala it is cold. It is a very humid, chilling cold.      Last night, everyone was wrapped up well. Women covered their heads with scarfs or shawls and men with hats. There was a group of children in the middle with people crowded around, I assume, keeping them a little bit warmer. The hot wax dripping on the hands of the women and children, looked almost welcomed adorning their hands with the color of peace. I wore my puffy jacket, three shirts, long pants and my tennis shoes, and I was chilled.

In preparation for the walk, the town had adorned the streets with white ribbons and each of the four crosses at each corner of town, and the cross in front of the Catholic Church wore white ribbons.  The float that followed the procession was at head level adorned with doves, red flowers, white ribbons and paint, and a statue of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus. A group of adults with their white candles surrounded the float.

The procession stopped at each cross and had a small responsive prayer which everyone in the crowd, but me seemed to know like the back of their hands. In between crosses there was chanting. "No more violence in our homes, in our families, in our town." And "Paz," Peace in Spanish among other phrases.

The procession ended in front of the Catholic Church in a circle around the concrete cross. Here we had one last responsive prayer and one last petition to the Virgin Mary to inspire peace in the life of all Guatemalans. One last time of giving thanks for the open mind and open heart of God and the Virgin Mary and how they shared this gift with us.

Mass Email... Just in case I missed someone!

Hi Everyone, 
     Its really hard to believe that I have been in Guatemala for six and a half weeks now and I have met my fundraising goal! Many thanks to all of you for your support--financial and otherwise!

     The first five weeks were spent in language/culture studies in Antigua and in a small town outside of Xela called Pachaj. Every minute here has been an adventure. I think I am finally getting a grasp on Spanish, and am now settling in to my permanent location. 

     This year I am living and working about a 30 minute bus ride outside of Antigua in a town called San Miguel Dueñas. Monday through Friday I work at the Open Windows Foundation in the center of town--about a 10 minute walk from my house. The OWF is essentially a children`s library with other educational resources such as a computer lab, daily learning activities, and classes.

     Friday was the last day of school until January. The equivalent of the US summer break is from mid-Oct to mid-Jan here. In January the students will change grades. During school vacation, the OWF has more activities and classes for the kids. Right now I teach English, Math, Sports, and Sewing during the week. 

     To follow me in my work and life in Guatemala this year, check outwww.caustinlangley.blogspot.com. And I always love to hear from friends and family in email, blog comments, and with Facebook! 

     I look forward to hearing from all of you soon! Many thanks to all of you for your wonderful and much needed support, Austin

Experiencing the Highlands

Last week was fantastic. All weeks here are fantastic, but last week during a week of immersion in a small town outside and well above Xela, the opportunity to participate in a Mayan spiritual service was offered. There were three participants and the Mayan priest.  Normally, the entire service would be in Quiche--one of the twenty two Mayan languages still spoken in Guatemala. Since only one other person in the service understood Quiche, the priest kindly translated between each part of the service. Here traditional clothing has almost entirely fallen from use amoung men and now is only frequently worn by women. The mayan priest wore regular western wear except his head covering--a piece of red cloth doubled over and tied in the back.

I was aware before that Mayans love colors--particularly bright colors, but when the priest began organizing all the different items including the candles of brillant red, blue, green, black, white, beige, and yellow, I had sufficient evidence to back up that knowledge.

The priest dug a flat square into the side of the steep hill revealing the muddy effects of the rainy season. He covered the bottom of the square with dry dirt. Then he drew a large circle divided into 4 parts with sugar on the dry ground. In each part of the circle he put a spot of sugar. On his lines of sugar he placed balls of pine resin. After, he filled in the entire circle with the pine resin balls. Chocolates and Candies were added for the ancestors believed to be in the woods with us, candles to represent the cardinal points, and the movement of the sun. In the center were candles of blue and green for God and the land--the two most important factors in Mayan Spirituality.

Each of the participants were handed six candles to represent themselves which we held for a large portion of the service. We were blessed with them, and after we gave our candles a kiss, they were thrown into the fire. We faced each point of the sun and prayed for health, prosperity, love, and peace each time counting to thirteen to represent the thirteenth day of the Mayan 20 day month-- The Day of the Woman.

We were handed two pieces of pine wood to rub over our body to cleanse us of our sin. These pieces were then were thrown into the fire in the shape of an X. Nearing the end of the service, the priest sprinkled us with a piney smelling liquid. We threw in a handful of sesame seeds to represent love and money.  The distinct crackling sound of the burning seeds filled the air as the service continued.

The enitre service lasted about and hour and a half. Through the whole service I wore a smile and held a great sense of peace within myself knowing that my God heard my prayers.

On Commuting

I am immersed in differences here in this beautiful country. One of the major ones I named in the last post...noise. But, another one that has caused me to reflect on my life in the States is the idea of commuting to work. In the states, I often complained about a long commute even though I secretly loved having my space to sing as loud as I wanted to my radio. Here a commute is done because a person has to. No other choices. Period. And it is not easy. Nor is it a time for personal space or reflection. The bus only cost a little more than a piece of candy, but it is packed full. These buses are often called "chicken buses" in the states although they clearly do not carry chickens. They are painted in bright colors and often have pictures of the virgin Mary and Jesus on the inside. People crowd in often three to a seat and people standing in the aisles. The attendant stands on the bottom steps and hangs out to call the stops. The bus makes ninety degree turns on narrow streets and pass other massive truck going the opposite direction at what feels like a million miles an hour, but is probably more like 30mph. Usually I am full of anxiety about who I am going to be smushed up against next on these buses, but yesterday I open my eyes and found peace in my environment. I was amazed by the people I saw and their patience at being sat on and stepped on. Their acceptance and understanding of the situation that everyone is just trying to get to or from work, to or from friends and family is astounding. I found peace in knowing that I too fit that bill,simply trying to get from school to the comfort of my room.

Music of Life Taken for Granted

I have only been in Guatemala for five days and I can already list pages of things I took for granted in the States. The element in my daily life that has changed the most is sound. It is NEVER quiet in Guatemala. There is music playing everywhere. Listening to the music of the streets, children, buses, cars, and pedestrians, I am often overwhelmed by the consistent presence of people. Windows and doors stay open to keep a breeze through the insides of hotels, homes, and stores. Coming in with the breeze is the sound of the trash truck and the neighboring hostel's radio or the restaurant's background music. The melting pot of sounds really emphasizes the way in which community is so highly valued in this country. It has hit me that I am entirely out of a comfort zone. And it is wonderful. Observing the physical differences that cause the change in this Music of Guatemalan life, has amazed me. Cars flying over cobbled streets, huge colorfully painted school buses as transportation overwhelm all of my senses. As I had hoped, I am completely removed from my standard way of life. Nothing resembles it. The closest I have been to something from home was in church this morning singing "How Great is Our God" in Spanish. It has been a wonderful five days and I look forward to more sensory overload and further adaptation.

Angels and Airplanes!

My first little circle of light joyfully showed itself last Monday as I was tearfully leaving North Carolina. Walking away from my beautiful, naturally perfect dog was hard enough. Then, leaving my parents at the airport, my tears flowed even more freely. As I boarded the plane I managed to get my tears under control, but they were there--barely under the surface. A very kind gentleman, Bill offered to let me put one of my bags under the seat in front of him, to keep me from having to check my larger carry-on. Before the plane even began to roll, I had already started with my tears. Bill on one side and Travis on the other talked with me the whole trip. They asked me questions about my year, told me a little about their lives and let me talk about my family and friends. It was remarkably healing. As I was disembarking the plane between the two of them, I realized that God himself had put his hand out and held me tight when I just couldn't make it on my own. He sent me two wonderful angels, Bill and Travis, to bring me comfort and remind me why I was leaving all the things I love most behind.

Orientation this week (extended due to Hurricane Irene) has been a life-changing experience in itself. I can't wait to see what the year brings! Thank you all for your loving support and prayers!

Hey, my new blog!

This is my blog about my YAV year in Guatemala!