One Week in Guatemala, & Why My 8-Year-Old Self Was Right All Along
When I first booked a week of volunteering in Guatemala, I didn’t really know why I would do such a thing.
A magazine article reminded me that I always wanted to revisit the historic city of La Antigua (I spent a fortuitous half day there 5 years ago). I was entering a month-long layoff from a US tour and I wanted an alternative, self-discovering type of trip just for me — because this was an alternative, self-discovering type of year.
The atheist who wrote the magazine article touted Tikal, Guatemala as a mecca of Mayan ruins, and claimed to have an indescribable spiritual experience at the top of a nearly 3000 year-old stone temple.
Images and feelings flooded in as I read, and there wasn’t so much a process of humming/hawing over why and when I should go, as there just sat a very plain truth: I’m going there.
The volunteer idea? Admittedly this was generated out of some vague desire to be more selfless. I recently broke off a 3-year marriage to be with someone else. So, no matter what complex motivations lay in the ether, no matter what necessary self-truths and hard changes were afloat, the situation called for selflessness.
When I was maybe eight or nine, I had recurring day dreams about my grownup self bringing a massive burlap sack — a la Santa Claus — full of food and presents to starving kids in Africa. That would be my job. I didn’t see myself becoming a princess or an astronaut. Typical ‘little girl’ dreams of flawless weddings and pastoral family houses in front of sunsets were never my thing. I remember those Africa visualizations and the pure emotional ‘yes’ behind them as clear as day. In my imagination I was taller than I turned out to be (what?!), with a pretty dark tan, short hair, and a deep voice like Oprah’s. The food and gifts pulled from the sack were the renderings of an 8-year old: perishables like fruit, veggies, milk and cake. Frisbees and toy cars and dolls and puzzles. I wore plain clothing and a giant smile. It was so simple to me. They don’t have the yummy foods and fun toys that I get everyday, so I’ll literally just buy the stuff, throw it all in one bag and the families in need will be waiting for me when I get off the plane, somewhere in the entire continent of Africa.
Foolproof, 8-year-old me.
I don’t remember sharing that idea with anyone through my childhood — I had a tendency to embarrass easily and I wanted to be considered suave and kickass at all times, which usually meant keeping stupid shit like that to myself. Even as an awkward, imaginative, curious prepubescent I was afraid to make waves. When did that start, and why? I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.
I spent a great many years, if not all of them, trying to be the kind of person other kids and adults liked. Good grades. Educated witticisms. Brave (or at least the appearance of it) adventure side. Readiness for heart to hearts. I liked making people happy. I still do. And pretending to be brave and compassionate seemed to spark in me real bravery and compassion. Go figure — those are things you can choose.
The profession I’ve chosen pretty directly makes both me and other people happy — albeit via sequins and corny jokes and jazz hands. In attempting to dance and sing and travel and get paid I have stumbled upon a way to spread happiness to audiences across the sphere, while living comfortably in decent fashion and good health. Bonus. Until this week, I had never travelled truly alone on a trip of entirely my choosing. I also hadn’t technically volunteered since my early twenties at Canadian food banks. *As an artist perpetually trying to get paid, your desire to work for free tends to get pushed aside. Now in 2015, I had the means. I had the drive.
At your service, universe.
I found a grassroots volunteer org. doing work based out of Antigua. They offered a holiday week involving work with kids and help on a local coffee farm. I anticipated more of a vacation-style week than a work trip, which I think was a good thing.
I spent the first 3 weeks of tour-layoff basking in friend and family love in San Francisco, Vegas, New York, Nashville, and Panama City Beach. For the first time in 6 or 7 years I stopped worrying about money. Any time I thought of a gift that would suit someone I knew, I just bought it without question and sent it to them. I sang at the top of my lungs in cars and bathrooms and danced to every degree of eager, cool, and goofball. I ate fresh, earthy foods and read about divine energy and healing. On Christmas Day I ate grapefruit from a tree and lay on the beach in a meditative state, next to someone I can’t help but love with every particle in and around my being.
When it came time to fly to Guatemala, I hadn’t filled a burlap sack, but I had reached a true state of brimming over. A state of love, joy and worthiness — and the willingness to help anyone else find those things. Indeed, you can’t take fruit or veggies or milk on a plane, much less in a non-regulation sack, so love and willingness would have to suffice.
Antigua is exactly as I remembered it. Blue skies above centuries old church facades and uneven roads of black cobblestone jog my memory as if they escaped from my ’10 iPhoto library. While in Antigua the first time, I had a gut feeling that I should come back to live modestly and study Spanish. So, when my volunteer office mentioned they’d tack on Spanish lessons for $5/hour I whipped out a twenty. I’ve come to discover that I know more Spanish than ever, and that I also know almost no Spanish. The thirst to continue learning and the notion that I can and will learn so much more make my days here more exciting. Being able to piece out phrases in conversations, properly word questions, and understand signs leaves me giddy and eager, like a 4 year old with a new toy. Sometimes a Spanish word I’ve been searching for just delicately floats into my consciousness from an old memory and my brain says, “I won us a prize!” To which I reply, “Good job, Brain! You’re killing it. Thanks for being so awesome.”
Learning a language is a great way to learn to love yourself — every day there are a hundred opportunities for accomplishment, a hundred tiny victories, and with only a little effort you can seize a crap ton of them. Also, everyone will applaud you just for trying and do their best to help you be victorious. José, who booked my tours to the Pacaya Volcano and the Tikal ruins, listened patiently as I stuttered over my rehearsed questions en Español, and didn’t skip a beat when I had to throw in a couple of English words. He responded in Spanish, slowly, because he could see my brain working hard for the win. I later found out his English was immaculate.
Five years and three months ago I walked off of a cruise ship gangway in Puerto Quetzal with a friend from my cast (who I would marry less than 2 years later). In a bout of whimsy we dropped $30 on a day trip to La Antigua and what followed was one of the most beautiful, appreciative, fulfilling days of my already fortunate life. We opened ourselves up to whatever experiences might find us and the day was so memorable, not just because of the cultural beauty and light we witnessed, but also because we were free. We let go of worry and expectation and the perfect day was upon us, like a breathtaking vista we didn’t realize was always there.
After the weight of all that had happened was acknowledged (with a great sadness), it brought me a kind of strange peace, to be back in this place, remembering a day shared with a person before love. Before marriage. Before struggle. Before inflicting pain on each other that we didn’t know we were capable of. Before deep, entrenched misunderstandings. Before forced, true self-discovery. I am reminded that we weren’t on the wrong path. We were on our path. And all paths lead to here, which is where we’re supposed to be. I knew I would come back here, and I did. The ironic timeline isn’t important.
I live in a house with yellow walls and a rooftop overlooking the city and volcanoes (there are 3 visible from town, one of which is active). At night the stars move quickly and you can often see a spurt of glowing lava in the distance. My homestay mother, Marta, prepares breakfasts and dinners with diligent tradition and love. Every conversation with her ends with genuine laughter, sometimes at my poor Spanish comprehension, sometimes just because her very calm happiness is unshakeable. I will return to stay with her at the first opportunity.
I spent two days with a group of volunteers at Nuevo Amanecer (New Dawn), a family home-turned modest after school venue for local underprivileged kids. Children of all ages come for things they don’t receive at home: meals, education, a space for playing and learning and the people to help them do so. Sidewalk chalk in hand, I led games of hopscotch and tic tac toe with just shy of 100 little ones. I tried to remember the last time I witnessed a child take a wholehearted interest in sidewalk chalk for more than five minutes. These niños y niñas played and played and smiled and smiled. They shared politely and waited their turn and reacted keenly to anything we did. They were 100% appreciative. I envisioned some of the kids back home, bored on their ipads, screaming if they didn’t like some element of the 3 meals/day they were endlessly provided. It occurred to me that these kids have almost nothing, yet they are given a kind of underdog advantage. Let me put it this way: the Antigua city roads are made of cobblestones and character, but they are roughly maintained and difficult to drive, cycle, and walk on without trouble. The unevenness of the stones forces you to constantly look down and tread extra carefully for fear of twisting an ankle. Middle to pampered-class North Americans see the roads as tricky and annoying. Some get flustered at the sight of even a few pebbles on their perfectly paved driveways. But kids who grow up traipsing the jagged streets and unpredictable sidewalks don’t know any other kind of city road. They learn from a young age how to walk, run, and play efficiently among the jutting stones. And the day they are granted a chance at the smooth pavement we’re used to, they’ll be able to run with more speed and skill than any of us. They might even want to help others do the same. Conclusion: I see now that these kids will grow to recognize and appreciate the opportunity to thrive.
On the second day at Nuevo Amanecer, we brought a hundred little styrofoam plates of chichitos (mini tamales wrapped in corn husks), sliced loaf cake, vitamin-enhanced drink mix, piñatas, games, and garbage bags full of tiny wrapped presents. Each child patiently waited for their plate and lined up diligently for their present. The family daughters presented a traditional dance and the room filled up with thank-you’s from all sides — from the kids and their parents, from the family who ran the project, from the volunteers and back.
I sniffled quietly. Tears rolled down my cheeks. It really WAS this simple. I really could fly anywhere that kids were hungry and give out presents and food from a bag. No, I wasn’t as tall or deep-voiced as I thought I would be (kids tend to exaggerate in their minds), but I had become almost the EXACT woman I dreamt I would be…when I was eight.
I also exclusively paid for this trip by singing and dancing. 100 poor Guatemalan children got a better Christmas because I learned how to carry a tune with jazz hands. Clearly I am supposed to keep doing this.
I leave in the morning for Tikal. The ruins will be both quieting and stimulating. They will form the perfect lid on the journey to find myself in Guatemala, but the ‘spiritual’ experience I was pining for as I read that in-flight magazine months ago was already accomplished before any Mayan temples entered my field of vision. I found that ‘spiritual’ rush of divinity, that alignment of universe and purpose…in a garbage bag of wrapped toys, in a room full of tiny, grateful faces.
