The Voice of Greta

Ignorance and Education

Greta is a high school Junior from Bozeman, Montana currently attending the spring semester in Mexico and Central America with The Traveling School, a high school study abroad program that empowers girls as they travel and learn. For three and a half mounths she is traveling with eleven girls and four teachers through Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras.

I try to imagine the death and devastation littering the social landscape of Guatemala. My mind paints pictures of brutal murders in the night, lives stolen by a power struggle few know exist. I smell incense, its perfume consuming the church. I feel the bitter lament of a village, united by the death of their Shaman. I see how one community drifts from its beliefs without their leader. This is the path my thoughts embark on as I gaze out the window, the sounds of Jack Johnson filling my ears. What else has my education thus far held from me? What other atrocities occur on this planet as I obliviously live out my life?
Before such questions haunted my thoughts, my feet rose and fell, making a rhythm on the aged cobblestone streets of Antigua, Guatemala. Engulfed within a group of eleven other teenage girls, my ears fill with their endless chatter as we snake in a single file line across lively streets. Tuning out the whirlwind of conversations, I submerge myself in the new world surrounding me. I observe the hustle and bustle of the passersby and gawk at the looming yellow churches covered with intricate carvings. My mind wanders to the purpose of our walk; a visit to Catherine Doctor'¬s house. A family friend of Emily's, my Traveling School history teacher, Catherine and her husband have spent their lives traveling abroad and living amongst different cultures. Eager to hear her stories, I quicken my pace.
Our group eagerly crowds into a small shop full of beautifully woven tapestries and blankets descending upon every inch of floor space.Catherine greets us, her blonde hair perfectly perched on her head. With a kind smile she ushers us through a narrow doorway that opens into a lush courtyard. We enter her living room, sit, and look at the enthralling objects filling her home. I find myself fascinated with a centerpiece on the coffee table; a simple, worn pot. Its lack of extravagance leaves me baffled as to its importance. Catherine informs us that this pot was made by the Olmecs in 600 B.C., giving me a new appreciation for its existence. A monkey statue stares back at me with unblinking, circular eyes; eyes that have been open since Christ walked the earth. Each object revealed to me a new part of history, a part that came alive as she spoke. My attention was directed abruptly away from an intricately carved stone head adorning a garden rock when Catherine said the word “ Murders.”
Catherine went on to tell our now silent group about the killings of 140 indigenous Shaman leaders in Guatemala which reportedly occurred over the last eight years. The killers, new converts of the Evangelical Church, commit such crimes to bring more people to their religion. I prepare to ask why this issue has not been all over the news, but my question is answered for me. The Shamans have historically been viewed as second class citizens by the government and Spanish populations of Guatemala, a problem many indigenous people still struggle with. Portrayed by their oppressors as, “Old, drunk, men,” Catherine claims these religious leaders are being slaughtered.
As we move on to learn about a statue that once looked over a congregation, I wonder why this, and many other issues relevant to our neighboring countries in Central America, have never been addressed in my public school education. I certainly learned a great deal about wars and misunderstandings that occurred across the world in Europe, yet a country I share a continent with remains a mystery. Another sign of our country's ignorance was revealed to me in a phone conversation I had with my father while staying in Chiapas, Mexico. When asked what I was learning in school, I chose to share with him what I recently learned about the Zapatistas, an organized group of indigenous Mayan people whose cause was unfamiliar to him. I eagerly explained to him all I learned about the Zapatista uprisings; about how indigenous populations of Mexico fight for the rights of the poor like a band of modern day Robin Hoods. This revolutionary saga of the Zapatista occurs in a country that shares a border with the United States, yet very few Americans know about their struggles and triumphs. Why is it that typical secondary education in the United States focuses on the dead and gone past of countries oceans away rather than the complex past and current events of our entire continent?
A month after meeting Catherine, I am basking in the sun in Chiapas, Mexico, wondering why I never learned about Central America's struggles before coming to The Traveling School. Every country on our vast planet possesses rich and fascinating histories and complex issues I have never learned about. I plan to see, learn, and experience all I can of the cultures surrounding me throughout my travels. I now strive to learn more about changes in the various governments and cultures I encounter; for a lifetime of true learning is a journey we partake in, not a destination we seek.



Hamacas y Pescado

There is a place where the light blue of the sky meets the deep blues of the Pacific Ocean; where thatch-roofed houses dot an endless stretch of beach and palm trees laden with coconuts sway like dancers in the breeze. About four hours from Xela, by chicken bus lies, Chiquistepeque; a small, scenic fishing village on the southern Guatemalan coast.
Though the sunsets are breath-taking, the food exceptional, and the people hospitable, Chiquistepeque has virtually been left off the tourist circuit. With only one organization catering to the needs of travelers, this town is a hidden Pacific coast gem. One can find room and board with Anna and Efelgo, who began a proyecto (project) called Hamacas y Pescando (hammocks and fish). They rent out a few cabanas and provide three meals a day for visitors with the help of their neighbor Anabeli. They also built a library and invite local children to attend readings, games, and English classes on a regular basis. One night, we were served fresh fish caught that morning by Anabeli´s husband; needless to say it was the best fish I ever had.
Not only does Hamavas y Pescado provide exquisite food and comfortable accommodations, they also provide the opportunity for visitors to have fun and interact with local village children. With the wide separation of rich and poor very apparent in Chiquistepeque´s community, many disadvantaged children often develop low self-esteem, and Hamacas y Pescado desires to change that. Each week, Elfelgo and Anna gather the children together, open the library, and play or read with the kids for an hour and a half. When interacting with Hamacas y Pescado, you get to spend the afternoons with fun-loving, friendly children. If you want, you can even teach some of the older children English lessons. Either way, you have the opportunity to leave a lasting impression on the community and I can guarantee you that the children will have a lasting impression on you.


The Sea of Lights
The bush explodes, fire consuming every inch of its gasoline-drenched branches branches adorned with heart shaped ornaments representing the seven deadly sins. The flames lap greedily at the oxygen, stretching their arms higher, trying to grasp and hold onto the heavens. The stars are bright and the sky is clear. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse the full moon; it is an eerie shade of orange resembling the burning bush in front of me. A priest adorned in a white robe and sash emerges from the sea of people and approaches the magnificent blaze. With two shakes of his aged hand he distributes holy water onto the flames, yet they continue raging not phased by the damp droplets.
A man appears holding a thick candle decorated with white and gold. A spark from the tree transfers onto the wick creating a calming, new beauty. The next moment hoards of people swarm the single flame to light their own candles.
Within seconds, a glow spreads through the crowd, candle illuminating candle. I dip my own in, which has a piece of “Head and Shoulders” cardboard around it to catch falling wax. I walk beside rickety white speakers blaring music and screeching microphone disfunctions.
I follow my feet; they carry me amongst the masses crowding the streets. I look ahead and behind me and see only thousands of burning candles. They dot the pueblo like the stars above dot the night sky. I am a part of this sea of lights, the parade of fire.
It was here in Nahjuizalco, El Salvador that I spent Easter Sunday 2009. I have always spent this night tucked in bed, eagerly awaiting a chocolate bunny or jelly-bean-filled egg, but this year I was able to partake in a true Easter celebration. This is what I am thinking to my self as I chant with the rest, “Si a la vida! No al la muerte!” (Follow life not death.)

Tortillas, Stories, and Magic

Greta Robison is a high school Junior from Bozeman, Montana who is spending a semester abroad with The Traveling School; a program that broadens young womens´ horizons by providing an exciting alternative to the standard high school experience. This is the second of two articles she has written for her Travel Journalism class while traveling through Central America.

How does one feel the loving comfort that can only come from their home town when they are in a foreign country, detached from everything they know and love? How does one remedy a bad case of home-sickness without a phone call or a letter? The answer comes in the form of a warm tortilla, a good joke, and a loving embrace; exactly what I found in the small pueblo of Las Pavas, El Salvador. For four days I broke away from my Traveling School group to work with The Peace Corps, an organization I have been curious about for some time. I traveled to Las Pavas with only one teacher, two classmates, and my giant red backpack. We met Emily, a Peace Corp volunteer from Tennessee, to help the people of Las Pavas. Little did I know how much they would help me.

I ate my meals with Beta, an elderly woman, and her family. I spent my time visiting the local school, participated in a cooking group and a girls group where I met a countless number of amazing people. I have not the space here to describe them all, but I will share with you some of the people who taught me lessons I will keep for the rest of my life.

White pants grip Natasha´s body as she moves along the dusty road alone. She is young, her body slender, and though her face always wears make-up, it never smothers her beauty. I think back to a few days before when I met her, a shy
¨Hola,¨
barely audible as it passed through her lips. My equally shy return of,
¨Hola, ¿Como esta?¨ was met by a,
¨Bien,¨
as Natasha and the rest of the girls made our way down the dusty road. Though not the most talkative girl in the pueblo, she is truly the talk of the town. Whispers fly behind her back, though no comments are made to her face because of who she is. If you ask the women of the pueblo about Natasha they will eagerly tell you in hushed voices about when she started dressing in girls´ clothing, wearing breasts, and calling herself ¨Natasha.¨ In a rural traditional Salvadorian pueblo, it is a miracle that gossip is the only response Natasha´s presence has stirred. Emily shared with us it would not be uncommon for her to be severely abused or even killed in other areas of El Salvador. As the town´s only trans-sexual, she holds her head high and stands stoic and brave day after day as she faces the scrutiny of her town.

Beta places a steaming bowl of fish stew in front of me. My excitement to eat this gigantic meal grows and I think of the time and energy it took for the flavors tickling my nostrils to be created. A fast, rhythmic voice from the kitchen shouts,
¨¿Queres mas?¨ When I respond with a
¨No, gracias,¨
Beta proceeds to ramble off a list of everything edible contained in her kitchen. Beta defines herself by her cooking; it is who she is and what she is most proud of. She fed me her delicious food during four of the best days of my life.

Her eyes hold a gentle kindness, revealing a sense of genuine hospitality and openness. Her hands are worn, cracked, and aged; they are the hands of a woman who has labored for her family all her life. These hands have patted thousands of tortillas, comforted five children, worked long days in the fields with her husband, and tucked her grand children into bed every night. Her face is wrinkled, but smile lines are the most prominent features on her face. She survived a civil war, and early marriage, years of corrupt governments, and had to bid her four children farewell as they crossed into the United States. Beta has never stopped smiling through all of this, she knows the secret to life is to laugh a lot. She is not afraid to tell her stories, happy or sad, to her ¨four day gringa¨as she fondly called me. As I stand in her tiny kitchen, she jokes, laughing at my excitement as I carefully place a single round tortilla on the comal (a stone tortillas are cooked on) which she taught me how to make.

My friend, my companion, Miguel. Returning at noon each day from his work in the fields, his white shirt unbuttoned and loosely laying on his shoulders, he heads for his hammock. Using his age as his authority, he claims exclusive rights to the lone hammock, but he and Beta joke that he proclaims little else. They both know Beta rules the house. He eats his meals off a chipped, white chair, refusing to leave his hammock for a seat at the table. His mind is sharp; his eyes skim newspapers and books in his free time and he tunes into the FMLN´s leftest political news station at every meal. Though only formally educated through third grade he never stopped learning. I sit in a floral print chair across from his hammock for hours as we discuss the civil war in El Salvador, the U.S., and Barrack Obama. I smile to myself as Miguel curses under his breath at the mention of George W. Bush.

Kimberly Diana´s stained white t-shirt reads ¨Angel¨ and her red earrings almost reach her shoulders. As she turns to greet me for the first time, I am struck by the beauty I see in her chubby six-year-old face. She is shy in the beginning and hides behind doors, yet pops her head out every few seconds to satisfy her curiosity. After exchanging funny faces for a while, her shyness evaporates and she sits beside me, ready to tell me all the chistes (jokes), riddles, and stories she knows, sometimes with the help of Grandma Beta. The next day, I return for another delicious meal to see the smiling faces of Kimberly and Josue, her little neighbor. They sit Miguel and I down to an impromptu concert. They sing nervously in front of us, swaying back and forth to imaginary music. Song after song passes, each met with enthusiastic applause from Miguel and I, as well as spectators passing by. After the show, I get the privilege of an exclusive interview with the singers. Josue tells me about the toy electric guitar he has at home, but Kimberly interjects his colorful descriptions shouting,
¨You can´t even play it!¨
Josue casts a glare in her direction and proceeds to tell me about the flames painted on the handle as Kimberly rolls her eyes. I think of how young they are and how many people they have yet to meet on their journey through life. I only hope they will be lucky enough to meet people as kind and generous as the men and women I have met in Las Pavas, El Salvador.

Each member of this community inspired and surprised me in a different, fantastic way.
Natasha and her flowing hair, Beta and her warm smile, Miguel and his books, and Kimberly and Josues´ songs; each left a lasting impression on me. Natasha taught me never to fear who I truly am, no matter what the world may whisper behind my back. I will always remember Beta´s hospitality and enormous stacks of tortillas. Every time I think of her I will remember to smile and laugh more often. Miguel will forever stand in my mind as a reminder of the importance of education. With his gentle face in my memory I will never stop reading, listening, and searching. Sweet Kimberly and Josue reminded me of my childhood, they taught me to sing and dance. They brought back what my maturing brain had forgot; the importance of care free days full of silly shows and long, pointless stories. They, together with all of the children of Las Pavas, taught me the most important lesson of all; life does not move too fast, you make the choice to run through it. If you look at the world through the eyes of a child, you will see that the pace of life is perfect; and so it shall remain if only you start living in the now.

- Greta Robison