David Walford - Missives from Guatamala

We should have known. We had been told. We had heard it was wonderful but we had no idea, and our entry into town gave us no inkling of anything unusual. The bus lumbered down the steep cobbled streets into town: increasingly narrow streets. Crowded, kids, vegetables, oranges & sandias piled high. Sidewalks wide as a pencil. people. some cars. women in beauuuutiful huipiles, huge loads on top of heads. Small women. short. sturdy mayan women. with mayan noses curved, elegant and faces so ready to smile needing but a glimpse of another to ignite.

Chaos. getting off the bus: out the back door. Noise.

“alay alay alay”: shouts from the bus assistant as he climbs up to retrieve packs from the roof. grab packs. sling shoulder bag around neck. Off we go. Honking bus horns loud resonant, deep.

Heading for the town square. Map says a couple of blocks. street full of people & stuff being sold. Our agenda has us with one thing on our mind: Getting a room for the night. The lonely planet says rooms fill up fast on the Saturday before the Sunday market. We are here for the Sunday market. And more but you will hear. Must focus.

Ahhh here's the market area. Some of it set up permanently. Regular stuff. And there's the Church. White. Spanish style. But outside the front there's this roof of... it looks like juniper boughs & other tree boughs. Huge- over a front patio/entrance. No wait the Church is at the other side of the square.

Don't know what this is but my god look what's coming out of it?

A procession. And what a procession! Brilliant multihued headscarves wrapped around heads with tassles hanging down backs. Men with black tunics and fringes a foot long. A drum booming out a deep bass rhythm. And incense oh my God incense complex powerful incense of copal, juniper and myrrh. Swung in tin cans. Coals burning exuberantly. Perfumed smoke ascending in the sun. The more the better. And in the centre, a litter being carried swathed in cloth: rich deep royal purple cloth...sprouting a profusion of huge brilliant feathers. Four carriers. We stopped short, entranced. Boom Boom Boom. A kind of bass drum. Boom boom boom Boom. Two rhythms. Incense cascading all over the street. A group of about thirty or so people coming down the stairs of this extra churchlike building. But this was unlike any Christian procession I'd ever seen. Women men & children. We were so captivated we didn't see what was coming next.

The explosion was immense. It was so loud I am sure it echoed from the surrounding hillsides. One giant explosion. Shola shrieked so startling it was. Fireworks set off from a launcher carried by some teens in the procession. Sole purpose: to make as loud a noise as possible. Unannounced.

More incense. ahhh yes & did I forget.... the flutes. wooden pipe flutes played in an oddly off tune way. and of course concluded by another person swinging a tin can of incense. Ohhh look its turning the corner heading down the street we are going down.

As luck would have it we followed the procession down the street all the way to our little hotel and it turned into the gates of the compound across the street from us. Drums beating and flutes playing, litter carried, children dashing and beautiful men & women dressed so as to make the finest western clothes seem drab.

Mayan faces all- open faces, rich and deep. Faces that have known these lands for generations upon generations, and will god willing for many to come. Faces not unfamiliar with toil and struggle, suffused with a quiet joy.

And everywhere the incense: lingering in the streets; drifting up later to our rooftop patio as more was lit across the street from our $5.00 cdn each per night room.

Welcome to Chichi.
I hadn't felt so alive in a very long time.

WOODEN POLES AND MARKET STALLS
Chichicastenango market, early Saturday evening.

A few more images from Chichi. I know that one week from today I will be back in the market I am describing.

The hill was steep. The cobbles uneven and he was packing a load on his back. Of course up the hill. The poles were long... wooden... lashed together... not just two or three. On his back they were. He bent parallel to the road all 4 foot 10 inches of him. The wood bound to his head with a strap to secure the bundle as he trudged- deliberately, yet strangely smoothly, up the hill on his way to the market square. On his way to set up a stall.

Friends from home would have loved it. Poles erected. Ropes tightly binding a network together to form hundreds of stalls- as much as twenty feet tall. Holes are sunk in the paving stones of the square to set the posts in. The sharp hollow crack of dry poles resounds over the scene of bustling activity as construction phase is in full swing. Poles and bundles of treasure and small people of all ages are everywhere. Tarps are hung and a maze of stalls emerges. Rows and rows wide for the finest textile market in Central America.

The woven and embroidered textiles are hung, colours brilliant and subtle, textures rich and wondrous...

....and I remember the countless looms at work outside homes- a few strings coming to life attached to a pole and slung around a weaver's back with a strap. Women seated on the ground, practiced hands moving back and forth, up and down.... ...hanging from on high, row on row fruit of days of labour, seasons of sitting at those looms. The soul of a people hung for all to see. Stall after stall of them....piled high, brimming over...profusion of colour...dazzling poor eyes...amid the people those amazing people who it seems do not know how not to smile.

The market is big. Busloads of tourists- among them buyers from the Estados Unidos & Europe- come from Antigua & the Capital for the day on Sunday to tour the market and buy. I am sorry to say that some of the tourists are not it seems respectful, but of course many others do not even know how to bargain. One can easily become dazed. The buyers for stores can be ruthless. I have thought about how fair trade for textiles could be worked- but not now. Saturday night is the time for us to buy. The prices are lower at this time if you know how to haggle well and my daughter Shola is a natural. She dusts off her skills from

India

, and wades in. A couple of hours later we end up with a number of items. We are exhilarated from the tremendous sense of satisfaction on both sides of a deal well made, and we receive a taste of the honour given and taken in such a sophisticated and ancient art.

But forgive me if I give the impression that all is textiles. There in the centre. Under tin roofs you will find the permanent food stalls for the locals. Go on. Plunge in. Steaming pots and charcoal fires. Supper or lunch or in the cold morning, breakfast is there. Small wood benches and the smell of food. And anywhere around the edges vendors of everything. Hot rice milk pudding made by ample women and served right on the church steps from huge cauldrons wrapped thick in blankets. Latino CDs downloaded by a young Mayan teen who knows what's hot. The ever-present mounds of vegetables. A whole street of meat vendors- a carneceria off to itself. Men with an air of venerable sophistication selling incense of copal and myrrh, charcoal & candles for offerings

...and all of the above spilling out into the surrounding streets in a wonderful jumble that renders the mercantile life of the overdeveloped world of the north nothing if not sterile. A celebration indeed. Blessings to all.

David the elfnomad



David Walford Missives from Guatemala Episode 1 Episode 2 Episode 3	see the artwork of Jose Fernando Pinzon
Episode 4 We should have known. We had been told. We had heard it was wonderful but we had no idea, and our entry into town gave us no inkling of anything unusual. The bus lumbered down the steep cobbled streets into town: increasingly narrow streets. Crowded, kids, vegetables, oranges & sandias piled high. Sidewalks wide as a pencil. people. some cars. women in beauuuutiful huipiles, huge loads on top of heads. Small women. short. sturdy mayan women. with mayan noses curved, elegant and faces so ready to smile needing but a glimpse of another to ignite. Chaos. getting off the bus: out the back door. Noise. “alay alay alay”: shouts from the bus assistant as he climbs up to retrieve packs from the roof. grab packs. sling shoulder bag around neck. Off we go. Honking bus horns loud resonant, deep. Heading for the town square. Map says a couple of blocks. street full of people & stuff being sold. Our agenda has us with one thing on our mind: Getting a room for the night. The lonely planet says rooms fill up fast on the Saturday before the Sunday market. We are here for the Sunday market. And more but you will hear. Must focus. Ahhh here's the market area. Some of it set up permanently. Regular stuff. And there's the Church. White. Spanish style. But outside the front there's this roof of... it looks like juniper boughs & other tree boughs. Huge- over a front patio/entrance. No wait the Church is at the other side of the square. Don't know what this is but my god look what's coming out of it? A procession. And what a procession! Brilliant multihued headscarves wrapped around heads with tassles hanging down backs. Men with black tunics and fringes a foot long. A drum booming out a deep bass rhythm. And incense oh my God incense complex powerful incense of copal, juniper and myrrh. Swung in tin cans. Coals burning exuberantly. Perfumed smoke ascending in the sun. The more the better. And in the centre, a litter being carried swathed in cloth: rich deep royal purple cloth...sprouting a profusion of huge brilliant feathers. Four carriers. We stopped short, entranced. Boom Boom Boom. A kind of bass drum. Boom boom boom Boom. Two rhythms. Incense cascading all over the street. A group of about thirty or so people coming down the stairs of this extra churchlike building. But this was unlike any Christian procession I'd ever seen. Women men & children. We were so captivated we didn't see what was coming next. The explosion was immense. It was so loud I am sure it echoed from the surrounding hillsides. One giant explosion. Shola shrieked so startling it was. Fireworks set off from a launcher carried by some teens in the procession. Sole purpose: to make as loud a noise as possible. Unannounced. More incense. ahhh yes & did I forget.... the flutes. wooden pipe flutes played in an oddly off tune way. and of course concluded by another person swinging a tin can of incense. Ohhh look its turning the corner heading down the street we are going down. As luck would have it we followed the procession down the street all the way to our little hotel and it turned into the gates of the compound across the street from us. Drums beating and flutes playing, litter carried, children dashing and beautiful men & women dressed so as to make the finest western clothes seem drab. Mayan faces all- open faces, rich and deep. Faces that have known these lands for generations upon generations, and will god willing for many to come. Faces not unfamiliar with toil and struggle, suffused with a quiet joy. And everywhere the incense: lingering in the streets; drifting up later to our rooftop patio as more was lit across the street from our $5.00 cdn each per night room. Welcome to Chichi. I hadn't felt so alive in a very long time. *WOODEN POLES AND MARKET STALLS* Chichicastenango market, early Saturday evening. A few more images from Chichi. I know that one week from today I will be back in the market I am describing. The hill was steep. The cobbles uneven and he was packing a load on his back. Of course up the hill. The poles were long... wooden... lashed together... not just two or three. On his back they were. He bent parallel to the road all 4 foot 10 inches of him. The wood bound to his head with a strap to secure the bundle as he trudged- deliberately, yet strangely smoothly, up the hill on his way to the market square. On his way to set up a stall. Friends from home would have loved it. Poles erected. Ropes tightly binding a network together to form hundreds of stalls- as much as twenty feet tall. Holes are sunk in the paving stones of the square to set the posts in. The sharp hollow crack of dry poles resounds over the scene of bustling activity as construction phase is in full swing. Poles and bundles of treasure and small people of all ages are everywhere. Tarps are hung and a maze of stalls emerges. Rows and rows wide for the finest textile market in Central America. The woven and embroidered textiles are hung, colours brilliant and subtle, textures rich and wondrous... ....and I remember the countless looms at work outside homes- a few strings coming to life attached to a pole and slung around a weaver's back with a strap. Women seated on the ground, practiced hands moving back and forth, up and down.... ...hanging from on high, row on row fruit of days of labour, seasons of sitting at those looms. The soul of a people hung for all to see. Stall after stall of them....piled high, brimming over...profusion of colour...dazzling poor eyes...amid the people those amazing people who it seems do not know how not to smile. The market is big. Busloads of tourists- among them buyers from the Estados Unidos & Europe- come from Antigua & the Capital for the day on Sunday to tour the market and buy. I am sorry to say that some of the tourists are not it seems respectful, but of course many others do not even know how to bargain. One can easily become dazed. The buyers for stores can be ruthless. I have thought about how fair trade for textiles could be worked- but not now. Saturday night is the time for us to buy. The prices are lower at this time if you know how to haggle well and my daughter Shola is a natural. She dusts off her skills from India, and wades in. A couple of hours later we end up with a number of items. We are exhilarated from the tremendous sense of satisfaction on both sides of a deal well made, and we receive a taste of the honour given and taken in such a sophisticated and ancient art. But forgive me if I give the impression that all is textiles. There in the centre. Under tin roofs you will find the permanent food stalls for the locals. Go on. Plunge in. Steaming pots and charcoal fires. Supper or lunch or in the cold morning, breakfast is there. Small wood benches and the smell of food. And anywhere around the edges vendors of everything. Hot rice milk pudding made by ample women and served right on the church steps from huge cauldrons wrapped thick in blankets. Latino CDs downloaded by a young Mayan teen who knows what's hot. The ever-present mounds of vegetables. A whole street of meat vendors- a carneceria off to itself. Men with an air of venerable sophistication selling incense of copal and myrrh, charcoal & candles for offerings ...and all of the above spilling out into the surrounding streets in a wonderful jumble that renders the mercantile life of the overdeveloped world of the north nothing if not sterile. A celebration indeed. Blessings to all. David the elfnomad elfnomad@yahoo.ca Missives from Guatemala Episode 1 Episode 2 Episode 3	see the artwork of Jose Fernando Pinzon
		*editor's note:* David Walford is from Smithers - a town in Northern British Columbia, Canada. He is an ordained Anglican priest currently on leave. This is the first in a series of "missives" that follow David's recent journey into the heart of Guatamala's mountain region, where he travelled with his daughter Shoala. Together they steeped themselves in the wonders of the culture. These ongoing accounts are the first stages of what will be David's first book. David is presently on a second excursion, this time to the World Development Forum in Caracas, Venuzuala.

	Missives from Guatemala Episode 1 Episode 2 Episode 3 View the artwork of Jose Fernando Pinzon
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