Xela what?

Holy cow, today is the 7th day that I've been in Guatemala. I've become pretty familiar with Xela, Zona 1 anyway, but it is still very much foreign to me. Perhaps if I spoke the language I wouldn't feel like such an outsider, but I doubt it. After all, I am in Guatemala.

We spent last Wednesday night in the entirely unremarkable tourist town named Panajachel, know to the locals as "Gringotenango". We hadn't intended to stop there, but our driver, after assuring us that she knew where she was going, missed our turn and didn't want to turn around so late in the day. That was probably wise of her; I've read that it's not terribly safe to travel at night in the mountains here. In Panajachel it seemed that there were at least as many Europeans and Americans as there were Guatemalans.

After a few hours in the car we were finally in Qetzaltenango. During the entire trip down Ben and I had been trying to figure out how we could split from Joan without offending her or leaving her stranded, so it came as a welcome surprise when Joan asked where she could drop us off. It seems that Joan was as tired of us as we were of her. Perfect. After an awkward goodbye, during which we both tried, and failed, to sound like we'd had a good time and hoped to run into each other during our travels, we split from Joan. If you'd like more info, some dirt or gossip about the whole Joan affair, you'll have to email me or wait until we meet in the future.

Once freed we walked around Xela for a few hours and then checked into a hostel. This was my first hostel experience. There we met other travelers from around the globe, took cold showers, and went to a disco. This was also my first disco experience. I thought that the night couldn't get any weirder when I saw Ben on stage dancing with 5 or 6 other people. I was wrong, and it ended with me hearing a swarthy local fellow say to one of the girls from our hostel "I am the coffee and you are the milk and after we dance we should drink each other". That's one hell of a language barrier.

We're no longer at the hostel. We spent the weekend visiting a St Alphonso, a cooperative coffee plantation started by women who had been displaced to Mexico during Guatemala's unbelievably brutal civil war. The land where their village had been was given away because all of the inhabitants were killed or had fled, so when they returned these women were relocated to a different part of Guatemala where nobody speaks their indigenous language. It's a terrible situation but they seem to be doing alright. That is, alright compared to the rampant poverty that is common in rural Guatemala.

Now we're with a host family, are attending the Kie Balam language school, and I've gotten sick from eating street food. To be clear, I'm not trying to disparage street food, because I've eaten lots of it since I've been in the C.A. and have only had this one instance of trouble. Eat street food, just don't eat street corn that was cooked on a grill and allowed to cool for an hour in a pile of similar ears of corn. Learn from my mistake.

Quetzaltenango = Xelahu = Xela. It's a long story that involves Spaniards, battles, birds, and linguistic laziness.