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Features
A Volcanic Journey
by Yelena Sedochenkova
Jungle, early morning. The volcanoes stand gracefully, steeply sloping until they meet the lake and deeper still, until they touch at the point of the upside down pyramid beneath the water. The lake is as deep blue as the sky and this early in the morning there is still mist rising and lurking at the contours of the green mountains. There are birds singing symphonies, and if you look closely at the trees, you just might spot an orange or green pajarito perched on a branch. You are in the Guatemalan highlands. You are on Lago de Atitlán.
The lake was formed by a huge volcanic eruption 85,000 years ago, which expelled so much magma from beneath the earth’s crust that it caused the terrain to collapse, creating a huge hollow. Eventually this hollow filled with water and became Lago de Atitlán. The lake measures just over 11 miles across and it takes one hour by motorboat to get to the other side. To this day, the mysteries of the lake are kept alive in the hearts of the people; the locals will tell you that no one knows how deep it really is.
Many travelers visit Lago de Atitlán on their journeys. They stay for a week or a month and continue on, but I knew that I was not just passing through because a teaching position was waiting for me here in the little village of San Marcos. This is where my six months of traveling would end; this is where I would settle for a year—whether I liked it or not. I had just spent two months backpacking south through Mexico, starting in San Diego, CA, but the time had trickled away and I was now approaching my destination.
The small villages around the lake are still thriving with traditional Mayan culture. Women are dressed in colorful blouses and a long wrap-around corte, or skirt. Two indigenous languages are spoken at the lake, as the native people who settled here came from different tribal backgrounds. The Kaq’chikeles occupy the northern side of the lake, and opposite of them are the Tz’utujils, who occupy the south.
These indigenous Maya tribes have lived at the lake for thousands of years growing corn, beans, and coffee. When the Spanish conquistadores arrived in 1524, the Kaq’chikeles actually joined the Spanish in a fight against their Tz’utujil neighbors. After the Tz’utujils were defeated, the Kaq’chikeles rebelled against the Spanish, but were themselves subjugated by 1531. And so came the Church; and so came the ongoing oppression of what used to be Maya. If you talk to an indigenous person at the lake, you will most often find that he/she is a devout Christian who knows very little about ancient Mayan beliefs.
The main tourist town at Lago de Atitlán is Panajachel (called Pana by both locals and travelers), and it is here that the bus drops you off to have your first marvel at the volcanoes and the enormous body of water. The street that leads to the dock is a flashy display of restaurants, shops and stands, topped with marimba music and the smells of frying chicken and potatoes. It is loud and busy. On the street a foreigner inevitably encounters an army of old ladies and children trying to sell woven colorful bracelets, scarves, blankets, hammocks, carvings—anything that might appeal to a tourist. As much as one may try to “blend in,” escape from the pursuit is nearly impossible. A traveler’s backpack flashes like a bank sign and naturally the vendors are drawn to it. It seems that their trick is to pursue travelers until they buy something just to get them to go away. And I admit: I fell for it.
I finally arrived in San Marcos from Pana after a 45-minute boat ride and a failed attempt to refuse to pay triple the local price. Again, I blame the backpack. The difference in atmosphere between the two towns was a relief. San Marcos, unlike busy Panajachel, is smaller and less developed. Instead of roads, the town is lined with narrow paths suitable only for walking. It is lush green with little forests of banana trees on both sides of the path. There are no banks or ATMs. Only one real “road” that can accommodate a car runs through San Marcos, and it comes through town along the shore of the lake on the way to the next village. The rest of San Marcos is for the walkers and tuk-tuks, which are little three-wheeler buggies that serve as taxis.
Starting in the 1980s, many extranjeros (foreigners) mainly from Western countries have made San Marcos their home. Down by the waterside and up to the main road are fancy (and not-so-fancy) hotels and gringo businesses, such as restaurants, retreat spaces, yoga studios, massage parlors, Internet cafes, and holistic healing centers. It is a calm and peaceful atmosphere. Many travelers who pass through San Marcos come to meditate, do yoga, go on a retreat, take a massage course, or just relax and enjoy the lake. But the Mayan San Marcos is up the hill, where the road meets the dirt park and the trashed dry riverbed. Up there, there is no holistic healing. Up there, trash is thrown everywhere, skinny dogs are kicked, and Evangelical churches compete for the loudest speakers. And people live in poverty.
Most local families here live in one-room houses that they built themselves, usually made of concrete with a metal roof. There is a wood-burning stove for cooking, an outhouse, an outdoor concrete “sink,” and a mattress for sleeping. It is a simple, routine life.
The Maya are appropriately called “the people of corn,” because corn holds an ancient spiritual significance for them. In the Mayan creation myths of the Popol Vuh, the Gods created man first from clay, then from wood, and finally from corn, and according to the myth, today’s Maya are descendants of the corn people. Corn has sustained them for thousands of years, and to this day, it is praised as the plant of life. Tortillas are still made the old way, starting with the seed. Families plant corn every year up on the mountain. They harvest it, soak it, mill it, make maza (dough) and finally cook the tortillas over a fire. Often, their dinner consists only of tortillas, and they are the most delicious tortillas I have ever tasted.
The relationship that exists between the extranjeros and the Mayans is a delicate one. When I walk past, even when we greet each other, I can’t help but feel a sense of mockery from the locals, and I carry an element of guilt with me. They know that white skin owns more; they have seen us come here and freely spend our euros and dollars. They have seen the land we have bought and the mansions we have built down by the lake. So when they see us walking around in our material contentment, they feel envious and resentful. They may not understand the inner workings of this imbalance, but they know injustice is taking place right here in the land of their ancestors, and they are powerless in its wake.
As for me, I was beckoned to San Marcos by a small Waldorf school called Escuela Caracol. Waldorf is a form of education that supports the spiritual, emotional, and physical development of the child, each at the appropriate stage of growth. We cultivate the child’s imagination and intellect through creative arts, and school days are filled with stories, music, drawing, painting, building, dancing, and games. In addition to academics, the children learn that they can create whatever they need; they learn to knit and sew, build a shelter, and grow food in the garden. We foster kindness, gratitude, community, and respect for the Earth and all life.
So when Escuela Caracol contacted me in November looking for a first/second grade teacher for January 2009, I took the job on a whim. It was a unique opportunity, and because I had just spent three years rooted in San Diego completing my Waldorf teacher training, I felt that I had earned an adventure.
Before I arrived, the school had already set up housing for me: a jungle house way up the steep hillside in Barrio Uno. The house was away from the lake and the other gringos, and right up there with the Mayan families. Walking home I would feel many eyes on me silently wondering, Blond hair this far up the hill? I quickly began to feel my comfort shattering. We all knew I stood out—I was new, I was white, I wore pants, I did not speak Kaq’chikel, and I did not know how to relate to these people.
Every morning the roosters and generators would start up. Every afternoon children set bombs off in the streets. Every evening the churches broadcasted their sermons over giant speakers, and every night the dogs would gather in large packs and roam the streets, howling and barking. It was a hell of a life to get used to after living in a place that had noise level laws. Noise level? What noise? This was normal. This was San Marcos and the people here hardly noticed it.
I never drank the tap water here, but nonetheless, during my first week in my new home, I became deathly ill with giardia, a microbial stomach parasite that causes fever, diarrhea, and vomiting, along with unbearable pain. It can enter the body via tap water, and all you need is a drop on your drying plate. Welcome home. For three weeks I was in agonizing pain, the herbal remedies were not working, and in my torment I began to hate the world. I hated being sick, I hated San Marcos, and I hated myself for choosing to come here. I wanted to either leave or die.
But I couldn’t. The children were waiting to meet their teacher, and I had to suck it up and put on a smile. So after being in bed for three weeks, drugged up on antibiotics, I met my very first class at Escuela Caracol.
The school is magical, filled with avocado, jocote, banana, and mango trees, and fireflies that sparkle in the coffee plants at dusk. The back garden is where the Caracol Fairies live and they leave special treasures for children who have done good deeds. My class is richly composed of different age groups and cultures: first, second, and third grade, with English, Spanish, and Kaq’chikel spoken in the class. Step by step, we are learning to understand each other, and as we embrace the culture of the other, we see how human we all are. The children teach me as much as I teach them, and I can already see how much we have grown.
As I continue to open and let Guatemala in, I begin to understand why I ended up here. It was the children who called me; it was the spirit of Lago de Atitlán that pulled me in and wouldn’t let me leave. I work long hours and am exhausted most of the time, but these are the sacrifices I have chosen to make, and I love what I do. I see Escuela Caracol as a bridge that will help to unite the people of San Marcos, despite our cultural differences. As the children grow up, they share their knowledge and kindness with the community, and I hope that eventually the whole community will learn to see past cultural shells to the human being inside. Every day I feel that my work is creating a more beautiful world, and that my time here is also a gateway towards my own liberation. Liberation from my convictions and opinions, from my own self-constructed barriers and expectations. Guatemala is teaching me to take life day-by-day and to loosen the grip a little. It is teaching me that it is really not me who is in control, and it is really not me who is at the center of it all. Anything can happen at any moment, and that is okay. The water has been out all day, and tonight the power may go out again. Así es la vida. I’ll just have to use candles.
Yelena Sedochenkova was born in Latvia, former USSR, and her family moved to California when she was ten years old. Passionate about exploring the Earth and her people, she has traveled and lived abroad in Europe, North America, Southeast Asia, and now Central America. She holds love and respect for all people and creatures on this planet and is changing the world through her teaching, one class at a time. Contact her at breathofcolour@yahoo.com. For information about Escuela Caracol, please visit the school’s website at www.escuelacaracol.org.