Arriving at night with a weary head, one doesn´t really take in one´s surroundings. But whilst sitting in the roof garden of the GVI house on Sunday morning, one thing became apparent: in Antigua, there are volcanoes. Three, as it happens. One of them is constantly smoking, and apparently had a small eruption, if there is such a thing, a couple of weeks back. Oh and there was an earthquake, measuring 6.1 on the Richter scale. It´s at this point I ask that someone go to check on my mother in case she´s read this and passed out.
In addition to the volcanoes, there are plenty other, less lava-loving mountains. All are lush, covered as they are with greenery and the promise of breathtaking vistas (a promise which I shall verify in due course). Antigua es muy bonita.
After staying in a hotel the first night, I moved in with my host family on Sunday. My adopted mother, Christina, is lovely, though she speaks less English than I speak Spanish. It is fortunate that she´s great at charades. She is also clearly a lover of animals, and has a parrot 44 years of age that speaks more Spanish than I do, which is somewhat embarrassing. There is also a dog, which I had heard about but whom wasn´t around when I moved in. Upon returning to the house after exploring Antigua I met the dog in the hallway, but evidently someone had to forgot to inform her of my arrival. She was not very welcoming. Christina probably found me just in time to prevent a new brand of dog biscuit made of yours truly. With the dog and I formally introduced, she became suddenly a very cute sheepdog. Turns out her name is Lucky. I hope the irony isn´t lost on you people.
Monday saw the start of my experience in Spanish school. Nine hours - with a cumulative two hours break - of one-on-one Spanish. It´s utterly exhausting; there´s no point at which one can stop concentrating for even a second, as the teacher talks at you entirely in Spanish whilst you nod your head and say ´si´over and over. My teacher for the mornings is particularly intense, and speaks little English. In the afternoon however I learn with Miguel, who seems to speak more English and has different teaching methods. After studying in the school for two hours, we went for a walk around the square, culminating in us sitting on a park bench whilst we discussed myriad subjects from life in Guatemala to English football. I understood quite a lot considering it was all in Spanish, but I´m still not able to bring much to the conversation. Miguel also confirmed my suspicions that the Guatemalan coffee is mostly exported, and that whatever good stuff remains in Antigua can be found in the tourist shops at inflated prices. It´s still cheaper than Starbucks.
Having had a long day of desperately trying to understand Spanish as it was hurled at me, I found myself in the same situation at dinner with Christina. By the end I was of the opinion that if I heard one more word of Spanish that day I would scream. It was fortunate therefore than my fellow volunteer housemate returned from her weekend excursion to El Salvador; she´s American, speaks good Spanish and as it happens is Jewish, which makes makes me want to toss out an old favourite like ít´s a small world´, except that having travelled all this way I´m quite sure that it isn´t.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Eye of the tiger, brain of the washcloth
I'm not entirely sure, but when I ask myself what day it is the answer I get is 'SaturMonday'. A twenty hour journey with a seven hour time difference will do that to you. And quite a journey it was.
The first problem began almost immediately after entering the airport, going through Heathrow's security. Remove this, stand in front of that, left foot red and so on. All rather inconvenient, nothing entirely unexpected. Then I heard a PA which said that one should remove any belts with a lot of metal. Wearing my new red belt with a large metal clasp, and new combats that, without the belt, would in fact be big enough for myself and at least three other passengers, I thought this might be rather troublesome. However it was when I saw a fellow passenger being thoroughly searched, arms and legs wide apart, that I realised that this could be a much more naked problem.
Fortunately for all concerned, I was spared. I must look rather innocent, but a bribe also helps. So having passed through security I met Alison, who was to make the journey with me to Guatemala (she is here to volunteer on a related project, teaching the kiddies in the same community where I will in due course be building a stove). And so together we boarded the ten hour flight to Houston, where we would catch our flight to Guatemala. Damn long journey, I thought, but at least we would be spared Heathrow's Terminal 5, right? Of course not.
Despite the the fact that the plane was departing from T4, we were delayed an hour whilst bags were transferred from that more infamous terminal. It later transpired that many, perhaps all, of those bags didn't make it to Houston. Boy were those passengers angry. But they were not the only people to have baggage problems.
I was dreading going through American security. It didn't help that the flight was delayed and we had to catch the flight to Guatemala three hours after landing. The plane to Houston seemed to make up all the time as it happened, and the entertainment was tops. Scrubs, Fraser, a good film (Sideways) and plenty more kept me very happy. The only annoyance was having to fill out those ridiculous forms to enter the US. Was I involved with Nazi Germany between 1933 and 1945? Well yes, but I was hoping to keep that a secret. Who the hell would actually tick yes to that question? I can just imagine a top Nazi official, heretofore successfully under the radar of the American authorities, being presented with such an option: "Well, I helped wage war on half the world and kill millions of people, but damn it I just can't say no to a box."
Alison had been given differing advice on whether or not we needed to pick up our luggage at Houston, or whether it would be automatically transferred. So we waited by the carousel, and out came my bag. Alison's did not. Oh no, they've lost her luggage we thought, but this was not the case. In fact, her luggage had successfully been transferred to our next flight. But wait a minute said I, how can that be so when my luggage is here? The response I got: 'Err, that shouldn't have happened'. So, if we hadn't have been given incorrect information telling us that we should pick up our luggage, I would have sauntered past none the wiser, and my bag would have been left at Houston. I should make it clear that this was entirely the fault of those at Heathrow for not branding my bag with a large green sticker, as they had Alison's.
Still, the American Inquisition was nowhere near as painful as I had imagined it to be, and we had plenty of time - in Starbucks, *sigh* - to remind ourselves of how little Spanish we knew. Another successful flight later, we found Meike from GVI (the group with whom we are volunteering) and began the trip with her from Guatemala City to Antigua. As the minivan reached the summit of the last hill before the town, and with immaculate timing, I recognised 'Eye of the Tiger' on the radio. Despite my body being convinced it was 5 in the morning and not 10pm, I felt suddenly rejuvenated. I am here to build a stove, hand me my shovel! I was certain I could accomplish anything. Somebody should play that record to the folks at Heathrow.
The first problem began almost immediately after entering the airport, going through Heathrow's security. Remove this, stand in front of that, left foot red and so on. All rather inconvenient, nothing entirely unexpected. Then I heard a PA which said that one should remove any belts with a lot of metal. Wearing my new red belt with a large metal clasp, and new combats that, without the belt, would in fact be big enough for myself and at least three other passengers, I thought this might be rather troublesome. However it was when I saw a fellow passenger being thoroughly searched, arms and legs wide apart, that I realised that this could be a much more naked problem.
Fortunately for all concerned, I was spared. I must look rather innocent, but a bribe also helps. So having passed through security I met Alison, who was to make the journey with me to Guatemala (she is here to volunteer on a related project, teaching the kiddies in the same community where I will in due course be building a stove). And so together we boarded the ten hour flight to Houston, where we would catch our flight to Guatemala. Damn long journey, I thought, but at least we would be spared Heathrow's Terminal 5, right? Of course not.
Despite the the fact that the plane was departing from T4, we were delayed an hour whilst bags were transferred from that more infamous terminal. It later transpired that many, perhaps all, of those bags didn't make it to Houston. Boy were those passengers angry. But they were not the only people to have baggage problems.
I was dreading going through American security. It didn't help that the flight was delayed and we had to catch the flight to Guatemala three hours after landing. The plane to Houston seemed to make up all the time as it happened, and the entertainment was tops. Scrubs, Fraser, a good film (Sideways) and plenty more kept me very happy. The only annoyance was having to fill out those ridiculous forms to enter the US. Was I involved with Nazi Germany between 1933 and 1945? Well yes, but I was hoping to keep that a secret. Who the hell would actually tick yes to that question? I can just imagine a top Nazi official, heretofore successfully under the radar of the American authorities, being presented with such an option: "Well, I helped wage war on half the world and kill millions of people, but damn it I just can't say no to a box."
Alison had been given differing advice on whether or not we needed to pick up our luggage at Houston, or whether it would be automatically transferred. So we waited by the carousel, and out came my bag. Alison's did not. Oh no, they've lost her luggage we thought, but this was not the case. In fact, her luggage had successfully been transferred to our next flight. But wait a minute said I, how can that be so when my luggage is here? The response I got: 'Err, that shouldn't have happened'. So, if we hadn't have been given incorrect information telling us that we should pick up our luggage, I would have sauntered past none the wiser, and my bag would have been left at Houston. I should make it clear that this was entirely the fault of those at Heathrow for not branding my bag with a large green sticker, as they had Alison's.
Still, the American Inquisition was nowhere near as painful as I had imagined it to be, and we had plenty of time - in Starbucks, *sigh* - to remind ourselves of how little Spanish we knew. Another successful flight later, we found Meike from GVI (the group with whom we are volunteering) and began the trip with her from Guatemala City to Antigua. As the minivan reached the summit of the last hill before the town, and with immaculate timing, I recognised 'Eye of the Tiger' on the radio. Despite my body being convinced it was 5 in the morning and not 10pm, I felt suddenly rejuvenated. I am here to build a stove, hand me my shovel! I was certain I could accomplish anything. Somebody should play that record to the folks at Heathrow.
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