Yesterday was in-country orientation.

My husband and I met with one of the country reps (the other one is out in our town, getting our work and housing situation straightened out) while the children went to the zoo with two absolutely amazing childcare workers.

Julie is a university student and phys ed teacher, and Wilmer is a K’ekchi’ who has come into the city to watch the kids and accompany us out to our town. Julie doesn’t speak English at all, and Wilmer speaks some English and loves to joke and tease.

I warned them that the kids were buggy. They’ve been strapped in and locked up for the last two days and without a normal schedule for the last couple weeks. It’s been driving the younger two absolutely bonkers to be stuck in a walled and gated house with no yard. I told Wilmer and Julie that they had a lot of energy to burn…and would there be any places they could run around for awhile? They said yes.

I needn’t have worried. They ran those kids ragged. After the zoo and lunch at a pizza place (the littlest is stymied by the fact that there is no pepperoni here), they brought them back to the MCC offices where we were having our orientation, and for the next couple hours, they played games that involved constant running. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

In the evening we headed over to the Mennonite Seminary (Semilla)/guesthouse/language learning program (CASAS)—i.e. The Garden of Eden. Trimmed lawns, flowers everywhere, coffee bushes, sprawling flowering vines—after our (only) few hours living in the concrete, locked-up, crime-ridden city, it was pure paradise. We had supper with our Virginian neighbors (who are here for several months leading and EMU cross cultural), and they graciously accommodated our exhausted, grumpy, and (still! after all that running!) bouncing-off-the-walls children.

Today we have a few more hours of orientation before we jump on the Monja Blanca (i.e. “the white nun,” the name of a bus line) and head up to Alta Verapaz and our new home.

So. That’s what’s been going on. Now for the deeper stuff.

We knew that Guatemala is considered dangerous and has huge security issues, so I was prepared mentally. But being here and actually seeing all the armed guards is unnerving. They say that there are SIX private guards for each policeman. This means that stores have men standing guard. This means that delivery trucks travel with armed guards. This means that some houses have their own round-the-clock guards. This means that entire streets are gated off, with a guard at the gate.

The last part, gated streets, is new to me. When I was here thirteen years ago, all houses were walled (with barbed wire and broken glass on top) and locked. There were guards, too. But where the gated streets were only for the wealthier areas, now they’re everywhere.

It’s a challenge to keep myself emotionally grounded with all these guns and gates. I vacillate between flashes of Oh-My-Word panic and pretending I’m invincible. I hope the stress lessens, but from what I hear from others, living with these security issues is always a bit stressful.

The younger two children, however, have absolutely no fear. (Questions of the day: how do you teach children to be afraid/cautious without making them scared?) At CASAS, I let
them run up and down the street (it was gated) and before I knew it, my
younger daughter was the whole way at the other end chatting with the
guard. She reported that he spoke a little English and was very
friendly.

Hasta luego…

Yesterday we drove from upstate NY to DC. Mapquest said it was supposed to be a five and a half hour drive, but it lasted over eight hours, thanks to fog, inept map-reading (or map note-taking) skills, and a confusingly built road. When we pulled into our Super Eight hotel, it was after nine. The youngest one walked through the lobby door and promptly collapsed on the floor, fast asleep.

We woke up at 2:30, drug the children from their beds and headed to the airport. Everything, the whole day, really, went as smooth as could be. Sure, my older son had a little battle with his chocolate milk (and ended up wearing some of it) and my younger son’s backpack ripped (a little) and my younger daughter came fairly close to having a panic attack, but we did our deep breathing and soldiered on.

Despite her extreme anxiety, at the point of departure my youngest daughter was nearly shouting with excitement. She didn’t even seem to notice when the plane got tossed around for a bit. The sun came up and the kids ate their bagels and drank their juice and ate the candy and gum their cousin had packed up for them.

For the second flight, our seats were spread out all over the plane. My husband talked to the people at the desk and made arrangements so that we could each sit with one of the younger children. We gave the older kids their boarding passes and told them they’d have to sit by themselves. (And then a kind gentleman swapped seats with my daughter so she wouldn’t have to sit between strangers, bless his heart.)

I sat with my youngest. He talked the entire time. About the wings, about crash landings, about soda, about his seat, about his candy, about Guatemala—it was intense. He’d alternate between studiously peering out the window and then suddenly panicking at the height and slamming the window blind shut. “It freaks me out, Mom!” he’d squeal, burrowing his head into my arm and squeezing his eyes tight. 

And then we were flying over Guatemala’s distinctive, patchwork mountains. My son was enthralled. “There are gardens down there!” and, “It’s like a pattern!”

We whipped through customs (once we filled out all the paper work)—they didn’t even check our bags—and then we were outside in the warm air, greeting our country reps, getting (mildly) harangued by vendors (my younger daughter was smitten with the constant opportunity to buy, buy, buy, oh dear) and piling into the van.

We ended up at a guest house. The hospitable owners—one speaks English but the others don’t—fixed us a fabulous lunch of soup, tacos, rice, and fresh papaya and then worried when some of the children didn’t eat too well.

We crashed on our beds for a couple hours (some slept harder than others), and then some of the kids and I went on a little walk around the block (and through the grocery store). We had a brief meeting with one of our reps and a future non-English speaking childcare helper (for these next couple days when we’re in the city), and now it’s almost time for supper.

Right now, my older son is playing chess with a Guatemalan boy. Neither speaks the other’s language and both seem happy as larks.

We’re here! Can you believe it? WE ARE IN GUATEMALA!!!

One morning last week during orientation, we got the kids up a little earlier than usual so we could head over to a local pretzel factory before the morning’s first session was due to start.

When we pulled up across the street from the beat-up looking factory, loud singing was pouring out through the vents and open windows. The workers, mostly old order Mennonite and Amish, often sing hymns while they work.

We made our way around to the back of the factory and entered a dingy room filled with ratty sofas and chairs. Along one side was a large plate-glass window through which we could see the whole operation. One of the workers came out to see if we were there to buy or watch. I said, Both, and is it okay to take pictures? She said yes. Another worker brought us pamphlets describing the pretzel-making process, and another brought us pretzels fresh from the oven and not yet hard. Then we were pretty much left alone to observe.

Soon the workers poured into our little room for their 8 am break.  While they ate giant slices of cheesecake (out of hand, like we eat pizza), they quizzed us on our names, whereabouts, Guatemala, etc. In turn, I found out that someone picks them up in the morning and drives them to the factory and that some of them have church connections in Mexico.

Their break over, I resumed my camera clicking. Soon, one of the workers stepped back in to see if I wanted to come into the room to get better pictures. The man running the oven came over to chat and I asked a few questions about the process. The pretzels get a bath in sodium chloride, bake in a 550 degree oven for 10 minutes and then move into a 200 degree oven for another hour.

One of the women hand rolling the pretzels asked if I’d like to give it a go.

“I’d love to,” I said, “but my hands aren’t clean so I better not.”

“There’s a sink over there,” she said, and just like that I found myself in the line of workers, struggling to master the art of pretzel twisting.

It’s a lot harder than it looks! Most of my pretzels had to be touched up by the professionals.

Before I knew it, the whole family was in the work room. My husband had taken over photography duties and two of the kids were attempting the roll and twist.

Before we left, we bought a four-pound bag of broken pieces for just six bucks—some of the best pretzels ever.