This was my first inter-continental flight in about 5 years. And the first cross-oceanic flight in about 10 years! It wasn’t as bad as I feared– smooth most of the way, and the food wasn’t half bad either. One 8-hr flight down, one to go

"Meat"-- chicken in tomato sauce with potatoes, bean and chicken salad, and a piece of chocolate cake (not worth eating). Not quite sure why they felt the need to include an additional salt packet-- even *I* thought it was already well-salted.

French red wine Made me drowzy, did the trick.

Peach yogurt, "blueberry" muffin (I found one berry), and OJ-- the yogurt was tasty... it had HFCS, though

I found KLM's Corporate Social Responsibility statement inside of the breakfast box an interesting way to start the day...

That, my friends, is scrambled eggs with fried potatoes. And salsa. And cheese. Two types of salsa, actually, and one type of cheese.

I was running errands this morning, and the free donuts I had expected at errand number 3 were extremely gross (way sub-par), so I didn’t really have breakfast. Not that donuts would have been a good excuse for breakfast.

In the car between errand number 3 and errand number 4, I began day dreaming about these eggs. They’re nothing terribly *special*, mind you, but I think they’re delicious. By the time I finally got home for lunch, however, it was 1 pm and I was really frickin’ hungry (stomach growling and everything!). I didn’t have the time or patience or steadiness of hand to chop the potatoes into teeny pieces and wait for them to fry. So, I heated up some leftover carrot/squash/sweet potato soup and toasted myself some cheese bread (which was later repeated with salsa for dipping as a mid-afternoon snack).

I didn’t make myself the eggs until dinner time. Some poor souls will cringe at the thought of eating eggs for dinner. Those souls, I feel sorry for them– not knowing the joy that is breakfast for dinner. Especially when paired with decaf coffee or hot cocoa.

So I start by chopping the potatoes really tiny. Really really tiny. Like, a 1/4-inch cubed. I’m impatient, and am more likely to eat bigger potato chunks slightly raw because I didn’t wait long enough for them to cook. If you’ve ever eaten raw or under-cooked potatoes, you know that it is not a pleasant experience for you *or* your stomach.

Toss those in to one well-seasoned (and increasingly so!) skillet with olive oil, and fry for a while. Then I dump in TJ’s tomatillo salsa and simmer for a bit, followed by TJ’s corn salsa. I didn’t say it was fancy. Or difficult. Just delicious.

Finally, when the potatoes are soft and most of the liquid has evaporated (I detest watery eggs), I throw in two eggs scrambled with a bit of half and half. Oh hellz yeah.

Creamy eggy goodness.

Sometimes I’ll pop the whole thing under the broiler and make a frittata. Admittedly, I like the texture of that better. And the presentation tends to be much prettier.

(image from above link to original post)

This time, I just scrambled them and melted some sharp white cheddar cheese on top. The texture leaves perhaps a tiny smidgen to be desired… but the taste is delicious. So much so that I ate it all before I took a picture of the final product (that, and the final presentation would probably make people gag– not me!).

A note about pictures: I’m trying out using my camera phone and Bluetooth-ing the pictures to my computer (which I find really, really cool and entertaining). I realize that the quality of the pictures is a little lower than if I had used the DSLR… but I am determined to believe that there are no “bad” cameras, that each type of camera has its particular place and uses. And I’m trying to figure out how to take cool pictures with a camera phone. That is all.

A-way back in January, while Doc was visiting me in the Great White North (henceforth GWN), he lamented that he had never been to that exotic locale that lies even further to the North, that which is called “Canada.”

He also decried the lack of that fine dish, “poutine,” in the GWN, that dish which is native to the land even further north of here.  Thus, we set out to find the true poutine, the pleasures of which could only be enjoyed in the glorious land of Canada.

And so, we found ourselves a mere 45 minute drive from my home in the GWN, across (or rather, under) the gently flowing river that divides this land from that, in the place called “Windsor.” And how differently exotic we found it to be!

Alas, we stopped not to sample the nectar on offer at Canada’s favorite coffee chain; in our quest for poutine we carried on.

After winding our way through the strange alleyways of the hamlet of Windsor, we found ourselves at a local eatery called Gilligan’s.

And such delights did the menu offer! Hamburgers and french fries! Beer and soda (pop)! Desserts and appetizers! And, most gloriousfully of all, the most cherished poutine.

Not satiated with this singular delicacy, we further sampled the exotic specialties trumpeted by the menu: chili cheeseburger and bacon cheeseburger topped with such unusual garnish as peameal. Indeed, the addition of this peameal proved to be a culinary masterpiece in itself.

We marveled at the gourmet French-labeled ketchup.

It must be gourmet, 'cause it's in French!

Our hunger finally sated, we set off to explore the paradisal river front. My budding cinematic genius was in full evidence.

Detroit, lovely as ever.

The benefactor of the riverside park.

Doc by the river, with Detroit in the far distance.

In case you couldn't read the sign... Canadian delinquents are just here to help.

We warmed ourselves with a sampling of nectar from Canada’s *other* favorite coffee chain (now owned by Wendy’s).

And then, we finally resigned ourselves to returning to the homeland, the GWN, consigned always to yearn for the exotic adventures awaiting us in Canada. And poutine.

The End.

I used to love computers. I used to want to study computer science and write computer programs.  I taught myself HTML back when it was new and the only thing to use to write web pages, and designed web pages and choose-your-own-adventure games.  I was one of four girls at computer camp in 7th grade.

I don’t know what happened. Something inside me snapped, or I came to my senses, or something. But I hate computers.

This is why I use a Mac.  See, you hardly even realize that you’re operating a computer. You don’t have to do anything to make it work properly.  It knows what to do when you want to open a PDF or a photo editing program.  It already recognizes the file extensions you work with without you having to program them all in. No command prompts or run file lines or function this- or- that. Nope. All there.  It just works, all by itself.

Until it doesn’t.  Your Mac mysteriously stops working, and it is reduced from a beautiful, easy to operate, high functioning machine– nay, it is practically a personal assistant, that’s how little you thought about “using” it… it just does its job–  into a useless hunk of plastic who’s production is destroying the atmosphere and precious metals that were probably mined by child slaves. I’m not kidding about the child slaves.

And then you’re screwed, because the vast majority of people who operate Macs have no idea how to actually use them. And so when it breaks, it is catastrophic. Unless you paid the extra $100/year to ensure that a Mac expert (ahem. a “Genius.” those cheeky bastards.) is standing by in case your Mac decides to self-destruct.

But nooooooo.  Macs are so effing reliable. They never break.  Why would I need to buy Apple Care?

$%&#*@.

PC owners, particularly those with Linux-based machines, on the other hand, know how to use computers, because they are constantly having to do things in order to make the PC function properly. Installing drivers (what the hell is a driver anyway? I have never had to install a driver on a Mac), running commands (I don’t even know where the Mac command function is, or what I would use it for), configuring networks (my Mac just “found” my wireless network without my having to instruct it): these are all things I have had to do or wished I knew how to do  in the two or so days that I’ve been trying to operate a PC.  You have to know how to use an effing computer in order to operate a PC.

And I hate computers.

Two nights ago, when I arrived, I was curled up in my bed watching English-language movies while oscillating between feeling way to hot and feeling freezing cold, and wondering if my backache might indicate that I had something terrible like meningitis.  Feeling supremely sorry for myself, I thought, “It would really suck to die of swine flu after how much I’ve laughed at all this ‘pandemic’ media hype.”

Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I don’t have swine flu now.  I woke up the next morning with my nose having turned into a faucet, but otherwise feeling a whole lot better than the night before.  Damned rainy season cold.

However, I am now using this as my excuse for dawdling on getting my butt to my fieldsite, where I promise you there is no English-language TV, very likely no hot water, and certainly no free internet access. All of which my classy (that’s the word the guide book uses) hotel in Huehue has in abundance.

You see, swine flu (or “gripe A” as it’s called here) has been on the front pages of both major national papers for the past week and a half, as well as on the radios.  The health department is warning everyone to stay away from anyone with a runny nose or cough (however, they do not explain what to do if you happen to have a runny nose or cough. how helpful.). The hotel staff is already looking at me sideways, so I’d rather not repel potential contacts at my fieldsite with my plauge.

I’m hoping, in the meantime, that I will find the motivation to walk through the rain to the bus terminal to inquire about the schedule of buses to Sipakapa in this second cup of chocolate con leche.  If not, then maybe in the third.

Good gawd, I sound like a wreck.

So the other day Doc and I were getting cabin fever, having been sitting out the unusually sunny days inside reading and writing IRB applications and replying to emails from potential contacts.  So I popped a couple of ibuprofen, diminishing the pain in my hip/ quad to a bearable twinge (yes, I know that was a stupid move. blah blah blah, rest- shmest.)  Doc went to the market to stock up on picnic food, and we set out to climb “la muela”, a small peak above town to the southeast.

The road out of town eventually turned to dirt.

The road steadily tilted upwards, starting right at the south end of the plaza.  We stopped a few times for “granola” bars (in fact, rice crispy treats marketed as granola bars), but saved our lunch for the cumbre.

We passed fields of broccoli and onions outside of Almolonga.

The route turned off the road and onto a dirt and gravel track  shortly before the town of Almolonga, the bread basket of Central America.  From there, it became progressively rockier until we went from walking to scrambling over boulders.

Scrambling

It got pretty steep. Like, tumbling head over heels if you slip- steep. Or… falling a long way straight down- steep.  Did I mention that I get a little bit of vertigo? It was funny, usually I’m the one looking at something stupid and saying “ooh, let’s climb that!” Or “Let’s just keep walking and see where this road goes.” But on this climb I was actually the cautious one.

Don't slip...

Still having fun, despite the vertigo.

Doc was much more adventurous than I.

When we neared the top, a group of kids came running up behind us.  There’s a reason Xela’s soccer team gets the name “super chivos” (super goats). The chivitos hung around on the cumbre with us.  As Doc was climbing up the other side (there are acutally two cumbres), I heard one guy tell his girlfriend, “That’s a really difficult climb, there’s a lot of risk in it.”  Looking at it, I tended to agree; but Doc came back and rolled his eyes, saying that the chivito was just trying to impress the ladies.  Apparently it was easier than it looked from a distance, but my hip was getting stiff so I continued to play cautious.

Doc climbing the other cumbre, which I thought looked stupid-dangerous.

View from the cumbre: Almolonga down to the left, Xela to the right (behind the ridge).

When Doc got back from his mini-side- adventure, we settled down to lunch: panches de papa (potato pouches, like tamales but with potato), tamalitos, two very buttery avocados, and a fresh mango.

Seriously the best meal we've had yet.

The mango was mostly soft, but even the firm (less-ripe) parts were sweeter than any mango you could get in the States. YUM.

Most delicious mango ever.

The best part of the meal? All of the waste was biodegradable.

Hojas (leaves) from the panches, mango peel, and avocado peel. Not exactly LNT, but not plastic, either.

The chivitos asked us to take some pictures for them, and then they headed down. We hung around a bit longer enjoying the view, and then scrambled down before the rain.  In all, about a 3-hour hike.

Digan, "Wiskeeeeeeeeey!"

My computer died. Officially. It’s gone. The machine turns on, but it just sticks at the Apple logo. I probably need to reinstall the system software, but no one in this city uses Macintosh.  And, obvio, I left my discs at home.

(Amusing note: searching for a place that worked on Macs, we passed several stores with the Apple logo on their signs. Upon entering and asking if they could repair my computer, they looked at me like I was completely loca. No, of course they don’t work on Macs.)

I’m waiting on some less-than-legal discs from a place called “Discolandia” that may or may not be a temporary fix. Otherwise, I now have a 4 lb. paperweight in my bag.

I think I’m going to buy a PC when I get home. Apple has disappointed me.  Someone talk me out of that.

Now I’m over it. For realz.

So, drivers shout “Xela” (usually three times fast), which is the city’s official nickname.  In fact, if you want to get technical about it (and, um, alternative left-wing solidarity-y about it) “Xela” is a more accurate name for the city, anyway. The K’iche’ name for the city, back when it was the capital of the K’iche’ kingdom pre-conquest (which, by the way, was after the K’iche’s conquered the Mams), was Xe lajuj n’oj, or “Under the ten wise ones”.  The ten might refer to the peaks of varying size surrounding the city, or it might refer to the leadership of ten cofrades, or elders.

Xela is for short.  And trust me, everyone calls it Xela. Don’t call it Quetzaltenango. And definitely don’t ever, ever call it “Quetz”.  FYI: in most Mayan languages, the ‘x’ is pronounced like the English “sh”.

Not to make it any more confusing, but the department is also called Quetzaltenango (“place of the quetzal birds”, probably from a combination of a Mayan language and the Nahuatl “-tenango”, which is “place of”), and never abbreviated to “Xela.”

So, Doc and I arrived in Xela a little more than a week ago, eager to settle in to a semi-permanent (at least, permanent-feeling) residence and start reviewing K’iche’.

We got off to kind of a rough start.

The bus ride wasn’t bad– one flat tire, very little traffic, only moderate nausea and not even one close-call with a truck or other vehicle larger that us.

After five hours on the bus, though, we were ready to settle in. No such luck. First, the residence that Doc had reserved quoted us a higher price than they had promised in their emails, and the communal kitchen was a bio-hazard. Seriously. A literal bio-hazard. Contrary to popular belief, I can (and do) put up with crumbs and untidy roommates in the kitchen. But this was just beyond anything I’d ever seen before… beyond even the kitchen at NerdHouse the summer after my freshman year (where we observed the “no-second” rule, because if a piece of food falls on the floor at NerdHouse, it was guaranteed to have pubic hair on it. Yes, I just typed that.).

So, we got some food at the taquería on the corner and talked over our options. I voted for a move to the hotel I was fond of, with a private bathroom, TV, and clean shared kitchen.  I called, and they promised a room with a private bathroom for the coming week.

When we got there, they claimed to not remember my calling. And there were no rooms with private bathrooms available.  However, two anthro-friends of ours were staying there, so we decided to stay anyway.  The dueña promised a room with a private bathroom would be available the next day.

That never happened. I have asked every day about the room change, and I am still in the crappy TV-less shared-bathroom room. I am fairly certain they are lying about the room, because there doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the hotel right now. It doesn’t make sense.  And the dueña got worried that I was going to leave without paying, and made me pay several days in advance. Yes, I should have just moved. I’ve paid through tomorrow, and then I’m off to Huehue. It makes me sad, though because I ‘ve recommended this place to several travelers.  Not anymore.

To calm some nerves that were starting to frazzle, we met Doc’s friend/ research assistant/ our K’iche’ tutor, Jaime, at el Cuartito, the local super-hipster coffee hangout for drinks. Yes, Xela has a hipster scene. Or maybe its a cross between “hipster” and “hippie”.  El Cuartito also happens to have excellent mojitos.

Alas, they had changed the mojito recipe.  Whereas before your rum, tonic, and simple syurp came steeped with whole mint/ yerba buena leaves, now they appeared to be ground/ blended to a pulp. So… when you took a sip out of your straw, you got a not-so-nice dose of green mush stuck in the straw rather than a refreshing trago. Nevertheless, we drank the entire pitcher. One must not waste rum, especially when one is nearing the end of one’s rope.

We consoled ourselves about the bad luck with the hotels and the mojito recipe with the thought of a delicious meal at the best Italian restaurant outside of Italy, where Doc is friends with the chef.

When we got there, the chef (Alfredo) was not in.  We asked the server, and he said that Alfredo had left (for good) before he had started working there. He had no iea where Alfredo had gone.  Doc wasn’t surprised… he pointed out that Alfredo was both something of a rolling stone and a dirty old man, and thus changed venues with some frequency.  We again consoled ourselves with the hope that the sous-chefs were the same, and so the food would be reasonably similar in quality.

Quality, almost. Quantity, not at all. The portions had been cut roughly in half, and we both left feeling still-hungry.  We set out to find some dessert, which is surprisingly challenging in this city.

Honestly, I can’t remember what we had for dessert. We went to Casa Babylon, but that’s all I remember. Oh, well.

One more sad thing before I drop the woe-is-me shtick: our second-favorite restaurant, makers of amazing homemade veggie burgers (with lentils and REAL vegetables! and a fried egg on top! and a homemade bun!!) and even more amazing sangria (a blend of wine, rum, gran marnier, and vodka, apparently, along with the requisite fruit), that had a beautiful courtyard seating area with flowering trees and twinkly lights… had closed. Now that space is home to a gringo bar.

Things began to look up, however. We spent quality time with our friends (a prof at WashU and his wife, who is a student at Harvard… who also happen to be collaborators/ good friends with my advisor. Small discipline.) getting Indian food for dinner the next night (the quality of which fortunately remained unchanged from last year). We arranged our K’iche’ schedule with Jaime, did some hiking, watched a movie, drank lots of mediocre coffee and excellent hot chocolate, had a small adventure, and went to Bake Shop whenever it was open.

When we arrived, the weather was unusually, and disconcertingly,  warm and sunny.  Now it has changed to a reassuringly steady, cool  rain.

More, in detail and illustrated, to come.

So, June 7, like it or not (and chores done or not… but mostly done) Doc and I arrived in Guatemala City.  My summer plans are to study Sipakapense (a K’iche’an language… specifically the language spoken to a greater or lesser extent at my field site), to take lots of pictures of environmental and cultural significance, and to rewrite a paper on advertising by the mining industry in Guatemala… lucky for me, I was greeted by this image as we left the airport.

"We invest in the dreams of a country in development. The valuable thing is to develop."

Right next to the English-language Visa billboards.  Oh, Goldcorp (Montana Exploradora) is the company that has a mine at my field site. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Ostensibly, I wanted to be in the capital to talk to a couple of environmental NGOs based there.  In reality, I hadn’t been able to set up meetings before leaving the US, and so my out-of-the-blue emails to them were met with friendly suggestions to meet at a later date.  Doc wanted to be in the capital to meet with various bilingual publishing houses, but ran into the same problem as I did. So, we ended up spending three days being tourists, which was fine by me as it was my first time in the capital.

We stayed at a small guest house in Zona 13, right next to the airport. Relatively low crime, and walking-distance from the Museo de Archaeología y Etnología, which was our first visit.  We were greeted by a familiar name on the banners at the entrance to the museum.

Citado: C. Kottak 1994.

That would be a citation of Dr. Kottak’s (former chair of my department) textbook Anthropology, used in several 101 classes, on the banner explaining “Anthropology.”  Oddly, they list five subfields. Huh.

The collection of Pre-Colombian artifacts was really impressive, although somewhat poorly organized and displayed.  There was a group of elementary school kids running around while we were there, and some of them would freeze and stare at us when they heard us speaking English. Then, giggling, they’d imitate us in Spanish along the lines of “Hee hee, we’re speaking English.”

Among my favorite objects were the ceramics. I really love the designs on some of the ceramic pots; they were surprisingly simple black and red geometric designs that were really striking.  On the other end of the ceramic design spectrum was this stamp– so intricate! I want to reproduce it on a mug when I get home, either with vibrant colors or with the same earth tones, or maybe one of each. I can’t decide which would be cooler.

Precolombian stamp, made of clay (I think it's a late Pre-classic for you archaeo geeks).

Their “ethnology” section was quite a bit smaller than the archaeo part, but it was still interesting.  It didn’t hold a candle to the Museo Ixchel, though, located accross town in Zona 10.  I mean, check out their gorgeous website, for starters.

The Museo Ixchel is located on the campus of Universidad Francisco Marroquín (UFM) on the far north end of Zona 10, in the building adjacent to the Museo Popol Vuh.  The Ixchel focuses on textiles and indigenous culture, while the Popol Vuh focuses on archaeology. Neither museum allowed photography, so definitely check out their beautifully designed and incredibly informational websites (available in English, too).

Zona 10, I should mention, is the swanky part of the city with absolutely the lowest crime rates.  I always wonder why thugs haven’t clued in to the profitability of that neighborhood. I think the answer has something to do with the fact that their bosses live there… don’t quote me on that one, though.  Doc and I spent some time wandering around on our second day trying to find a bookstore/ cafe mentioned in my guide book, but found it closed.  We ended up sitting on the patio of the Guatemalan equivalent of Panera (called “San Martín”) for a solid chunk of an afternoon, enjoying the free wireless and sandwiches.  We eventually discovered that the bookstore, Sophos, had just moved to an even swankier plaza/ mall in the Zona Viva (lively zone) of Zona 10. Never fear, we bought both books and refreshments in their cafe (coffee and chocolate mousse for me… did I mention that our first three days here were vacation? )

We headed over to the UFM campus on our third (and last) day.  I was shocked by how gorgeous the campus was– I mean, wow. They must sink some serious quetzales into landscaping.  There were little paved, covered paths that went between buildings, winding through lush ferns, flowers, and other foliage accented by the occasional imitation Maya stelae. I took a picture of this crazy flower on a tree… it looked like it had pink hair!

Fuzzy Pink Flower-- 10 points if you can identify it!

Unsurprisingly, UFM has a particularly strong business program, and has inspirational quotes from Milton Friedman printed on their cafeteria tables.  Doc and I enjoyed a very economical lunch in said cafeteria– I had a chicken and avocado pannini, sugary coffee shake, and bottle of water for around $3 from the Guatemalan coffee chain “Gitane.”

The sugar and coffee concoction was delicious. Note the lush landscaping in the background.

The Museo Ixchel takes you through the Guatemalan textile tradition from Precolombian origins, to Spanish influence, to present day techniques, materials, and designs.  The exhibts are really nicely organized and designed, and include English translations of the descriptions (I admit: I defaulted to the English placards. I wanted to absorb more information.).  I searched in vain for a huipile from San Mateo Ixtatán in their gift shop, and settled on a funky “Creaciones Indígenas” t-shirt instead. I think “Creaciones Indígenas” is, in fact, a t-shirt company. But the design riffs on Maya glyphs, the money supported the museum, and I thought it was cool (side note: I’m wearing it today, and one of the travelin’ gringos in our hostel asked if I bought it at a store called “Urban Renewal” in Antigua [aka: Gringotenango]. She noted the “robot-guy design” on it. I just smiled and told her where I bought it, but she had never heard of the museum.).

The Popol Vuh museum is considerably smaller than the National Museum, but they make up for it with info-packed descriptions and a beautiful layout and design.  I learned a lot at both of these museums, and had a lot of geeky fun, too.

On Thursday morning we got up and grabbed a first-class (i.e. fan-CY!) bus to Xela (or, more properly, Quetzaltenango) the former K’iche’ capital of the Western Highlands, and the city that feels most like home in Guatemala.

Statue of Tecun Uman, colonial K'iche' hero, in the capital.