As you've noticed I changed the site a bit. Here are some changes you may notice, but don't be alarmed.
1) I have a new name. Guateblog de Lauren, but don't worry, it has the same web address, so you won't have to remember anything different.
2) I have an additional blog. Since for some reason Blogger won't let me paste photos within the text, I decided to create another blog with only photos. The address is photosofmytrip.blogspot.com. You can also find it on the sidebar
3) You can view my photos for this post by clicking on the title (The need to migrate...)
I'm working on cleaning everthing else up. Here's the post:
If you're visiting Xela, or in my case, living there for four months, people will start wondering why you haven't seen the oldest church in Central America, or why you haven't seen the intriquitely decorated folk art church in the neighboring town. My friend Jillian and I decide to check it off the list, and visit both.
The bus drops us in the center of Salcaja, and we ask a small woman named Amparo with a cross around her neck, and greying roots, ¨Where is the church?¨ She hesitates.
Don't people know the gringos are looking for the oldest church in Central America? I think to myself. I clarify, "La vieja?" The old one? ¨Ahh, si, La Conquistadora,¨ she says. The old church is named The Conquerer, a representation of the Catholic conquest. She escorts us to her house, where she sells "traje tipica," -traditional clothing, Salcaja is known for its manufacturing of the Mayan dress. "I don't wear it, I only sell it," she says a little too proudly. I'm reminded that one traditional blouse costs more than what an average Guatemalan can make 2 days working.
She talks to Jillian about Washington DC, where Jillian once lived, and we admire the black and white photo on the wall of her family that was taken in New York City. Her husband looks through his tourist catalogues of Salcaja, and finds one for us to keep with pictures of the church, weaving looms, and the alcoholic drink unique to the town, Caldo de Fruta.
Jillian rings the bell of the pink house up the street that apparently sells this myserious fermented fruit. We're greeted by a stocky fellow with a Super Chivos Xela soccer Jersey, Spandex shorts, loafers and socks, and sells us a bottle each for $7. Man, I should have bartered. It tasted more like cheap grenadine than fermented fruit.
We walk three blocks to a little tienda where we buy the other special Salcaja drink called Rompopo, or Guatemalan Eggnog. The woman behind the counter has a
1950´s hair-do and she lets us take a picture of her with two bottles of the yellow stuff. It's Sunday, she's the only business open in the town, and two men are sitting on stools drinking Guatemalan moonshine, and talking to us about Boston, DC, and Houston, where all of them lived at one time. One man remembers when the orange line was above ground. "Maybe before you were born!" he laughs. "Well, at least before I moved there," I tell him.
Many in Salcaja are forced to migrate to the States, which explains why people are trying to practice their English with us. Many have come back to Salcaja after deportation, or retirement, and many of those would rather no be there. Sales from Caldo de Fruta and Traje Tipica aren´t enough to generate income in this sleepy town. And Salcaja isn´t the only town in Guatemala dependent on remittances- money sent home from the States. What has the government, and our government done to keep people in the country? Why must thousands of people risk their lives in the desert just to find work?
It's Sunday, and the camionettas (buses) aren't working, so Jillian and I have to take a pick up truck to San Andres Xecul. This is pretty common transportation in Guatemala, and you usually get to ride in the back, fun stuff. In the truck, we meet a young guy who lived in Tennesee for seven years. He has just paid a lawyer over $5,000 to try to get a working Visa back to the States so he doesn't have to cross illegally again.
We arrive, and the little town is surrounded by dry deforested mountains, and the colorful church stands out amongst the whites and greys of the other houses. Two women in traje shy away from our pictures as we snap at the brighly colored bizarre church, with its fat angels, upside down mermaids, and harp playing nymphs. On the way back, everyone piles into the pick up truck again. It's like a big taxi, and Jillian and I are last, so we sit on the truck bed, which is wet from who knows what. Six women in traje line the sides, small enough to fit their butts on the truck ledge. They giggle, and talk to eachother in what I think is Quiche or Mam, but I can't tell the difference. I think about Amparo, and wonder if she's ever ridden in a pick up with ladies that are wearing the dresses she sells.
To see pictures of this post, please click on the title of my post.
