Evelina Reporting Live From Central America

Central American Snapshots: Evelina´s Letters from the Road

The trees here seem sharper, harsher against their backgrounds than in Florence, Italy. The tropical vegetation is moist and green, a darker shade than what I am used to seeing. As we walked along the dirt road in El Hato, Guatemala we passed communities made up of tiny tin-roofed houses; their yards decorated with brightly colored laundry hung out to dry. As we travel through Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras, I notice how everything is more colorful. In our tight-knit group of 16 independent Traveling School women, we spent a day laughing, playing and practicing our Spanish with children at the village school before making our way back home in the evening.One of my favorite parts about dinner is when we are all done eating and we gather together for schedule. I am always bursting with excitement over what will come next. Here in Central America, I am continuously intoxicated by my surroundings. With so much going on, and so much to do, it is a nice break to wear the same clothing day after day. Here we are in a real world school for 3 1/2 months and do not have time for the shallow high school stress of always looking stylish. We are all gorgeous with our dirt encrusted fingernails, hairy legs, and unruly hair.It is an interesting lifestyle we have here at The Traveling School; migrating from place to place, perfecting our routines of continuously breaking and setting camp as we go. By the end of this trip we will all be professional nomads. I am growing accustomed to feeling unsettled; that is the beauty of being nomadic. Although we experience sadness for the people and places we are constantly leaving behind, there is always more to come; always the anticipation, thrill, and attraction of discovering a new place. I love the traveling life.As we drive in our minivan shuttles, we take in magnificent views; our eyes follow lines of waving trees stretching vastly across green valleys to tickle the bottom of mountains in the distance. The grassy expanses are freckled with roaming cows and humble homes. Colorful clothing swaying on clotheslines flirt coyly with the breeze. The sky a spectacular gradient of merging blues complimented by the tranquility of floating clouds; pillows of the divine.Life on the river is mellow and everyone is allowed to be laid-back and have a great time. Rafting the Rio Lacanja, we barely navigated down steep cascades (waterfalls), swam in the river, and laughed over flipping boats. The stunning blue water added to the magical ambiance.The giant Mayan ruins stood majestic amongst the trees and flowers. I imagined the ancient Mayans gazing across this land, once enchanted with rich stories and full of life. On more than one occasion that day I had to do a double take, just to confirm that I was in fact looking at a plant growing on a ruin in Tikal and not a mystical tribesman of the past. I knew there were untold stories whispering along with the breeze, ancient tales ingrained onto every vein on every tropical green leaf, secrets carved into the bark of every tall swaying tree, and timeless music slithering through each blade of grass I walked through. When we reached the top of the temple of the Sun God of Palenque, the world lay before us. I stood there panting, utterly enthralled. The wind whipped my hair into tangled chaos. The surface was uneven. I turned around, laid on my back, and viewed the world upside down for a moment. It all made me wonder . . .What memories might I be able to hear?Should I listen to the silent flirting between the grass and the wind,Or gaze between the cracks of the trodden path upon which we trekked?Surely there must be forgotten stories scattered across the landscape,Stories of ancient nature and wisdom that now only the land can pass on,Should I find the right pair of ears.After arriving to the top of the Mirador to look upon the view, the scene before me took the little breathe I had left away. In a sudden burst of inspiration, I found myself awake and full of new awareness. I felt so grateful for everything I could feel, smell, see, and hear; it was one of those rare moments in which I simply cannot believe this is reality and I am not dreaming. Those moments are becoming ever more common for me these days.Cesar, our guide through Tikal´s Mayan ruins, held up an enormous tarantula that made me giggle nervously with the grandeur of its deadly presence. Its size alone was stunning; never had I imagined that a tarantula could be so menacing.Throughout this ever-changing journey of new experiences, I find that the fascinating people I meet light up my soul and change my world the most. I recall waving to some local children as I drove to Antigua from the airport in Guatemala City, on the first day of the semester. My heart warmed to see so many little faces split with grins. Soon, all of us girls were waving, inspired by a contagious joy that can only be spread though the connection of human souls.

Listen to the Children and You Will Hear the Ocean

"Viene, Viene!" whispered Kelsea, an unbelievably sweet-faced little girl with numerous curls bobbing up and down from top of her head, exaggerated eyelashes and an irresistible smile. Pulling gently on my skirt, she guided me away from the view of the gentle rolling waves towards the sand-floored library in Chiquistepeque, Guatemala. Children in this petite sun-kissed village have a hard life. They are woken up and put to sleep by the roaring engines of motorcycles flaunting the wealth of the hollering riders. Little kids stand tip-toe, trying to look out the wooden framed windows of their thatched-roofed houses, longing to be one of the loud people driving expensive rides. The economic disparity that exists here results in loss of self-esteem and motivation. Anna and Elfego started a non-profit organization called Hemacas y Pescado to combat the negative impacts of this great financial divide and to provide the local children with some inspiration. The couple rents out rustic cabanas, scattered peacefully around their beach-front property, for a small fee. Visitors are welcome to join in on the activities and spend quality time with the children. This organization started out with a few local kids and now manages a large, excited group of 74. Kelsea slipped her small mango-covered hand into mine and lead me towards a tower of books. Standing before the bookshelf was little Jason. Though small, I think he is going to be a rapper when he grows up. He and adorable Juan sat together with their hands in rapper-like formation, bobbing their heads up and down. Kelsea and I looked into each other´s eyes, both inevitably squinting from our chuckles. We picked up the first book and got lost in stories ranging from Barney to Winnie the Pooh. I was very impressed with Anna, the coordinator I was working with. She is warm-hearted and joyful with just the perfect hint of strictness. If I was a child here I would try to please her too. The children´s voices still echo in my mind and I hear their giggles when I look out to sea.

Playing with food

What do you get when you mix pesty bugs, heat, humidity, and 16 white girls in the middle of a cobblestone street in Juayaya El Salvador? To some, it may have appeared to be a freak show, but in reality, it was a group of American girls making an Alfombra out of Mother Nature’s ingredients. An Alfombra is literally a "carpet" made of colored sand laid out along the route of the holy week processions. Our design, comparable to the Sistine Chapel, filled the street outside our hostel. Fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters strolled slowly by, gawking at the masterpiece being created by the enthusiastic gringas. A cool breeze carrying salty, greasy scents form the nearby plaza constantly interrupted our work. Pulsing bass beats emanating from pickups driven by teenagers carried us through this intensely creative process. Many people passing by mumbled "bonito." The ceiba tree made of wood chips we designed was bonito; the red heart on the tree made of beans was bonito; the blue sky made of dyed-blue salt was bonito. Once done, we were left with a brilliantly colored Alfombra, grins on our faces, compliments in our ears, and blue ink on the tips of our fingers.

Perfect. Love. Perfect.

The 85 degree ocean water was not as refreshing as it looked. Still a welcome escape from the intense El Salvador sun, we pranced and frolicked through the crashing waves of Punta Roca in la Libertadad.
“I just tasted the pacific ocean,” my classmate Biz exclaimed after inhaling a face full of water. I do not think I have ever felt so connected to the natural world simply diving through the waves. For the first day of our surfing lesson our instructors, “Papa” and Mario, pushed us into the waves. Soon Mario had me catching my own. With a surf board strapped to my ankle, my usual fear of the ocean’s waves melted away with the day’s heat. Being carried by a wave is the most liberating sensation, like riding a bike down a very long hill with the wind in your eyes. A spark of addiction ignited within me in first the first hour and a half and I felt as if I understood why some develop such a binding attachment to the sport. Every once in a while, I would actually stand up, and sometimes I even stayed up for more than a second. These moments inspired me and made me hunger for more. Eventually, my arms grew tired, but I never wanted to stop. I never grew cold and the more I stood up (however briefly) the more I craved the waves. Indeed, I became frantic for more, and the sight of the curling short wall of water approaching me resulted in an uncontrollable urgency to get on the board.
Paddle. Go!
Sometimes I would have a conversation with a fellow classmate while waiting for a wave. Finally, we would spot one big enough tocatch and shout mid-sentence,
“This is it!"
We rode those tiny waves that probably looked flat-out pathetic to the more experienced surfer. To us, those rides simply fanned the flames of our new found addiction; wipe out after salty wipe out. As our session ended, the hot sun reflected off of our arms clutching the boards and our hair styled by the will of the current and the angle of our falls.
Perfect. Love. Perfect.

PEACE (of My Heart) CORPS

I wrap my arms around Tim, a Peace Corps volunteer from Kansas who hosted my classmates and I for four days in the small village of El Pital, El Salvador. I do not want to let go for the fear of this experience truly coming to an end. A couple of seconds later I slowly ease my arm muscles and my eyes shut tight gating my tears. The words, ¨thank you," catch the breeze and do not reach Tim. Maybe that is a good thing because ¨thank you¨ seems like a lame attempt to express the gratitude I feels towards Tim for allowing me to visit his village.
I pick up my backpack and heart off the concrete floor and drag myself onto the booming chicken bus, which is blasting the same five songs I have heard over and over during my three month long journey through Central America. I gaze out of the window and watch El Pital shrink in the distance. What could my new friends and family be doing right now? Are the best dancers, Edwin, Otto, and Leo practicing the 1980´s dance moves I taught them the night before at our dance party? Are they working? Or, are they talking about the latest news on the "Mara 18," a feared gang that commands streets from Los Angeles all the way down to El Salvador. Are the girls we had in our life skills class reading the goals they set for the next ten years like they promised or are they patting tortillas for the evening meal?
I drift away and daydream about the morning we gathered young people, ages five to twenty-two, together to paint rocks and lamp posts with us. The beautiful artwork will keep the government from suffocating the village with political graffiti and glossy presidential candidate pictures. I smile thinking about the hour and a half hike to the reward of a refreshing pool of water with a small waterfall along side it. The most incredible feeling comes when I think about what a significant impact us gringas had on the girls we interacted with. Tim told us that most of the girls came on the hike but few had the courage and confidence to go into the water. They were too embarrassed. As soon as they saw us, young gringas, swimming in the water, they cannon-balled in.
The bus begins to slow down and I arrive at my new destination, though I am still reminiscing about my time in El Pital. Just maybe, I will follow in the admirable footsteps of Tim, as a Peace Corps volunteer, and return to the petite village to reclaim my heart.

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

Thoughts by Robin

The School Where I Learned to Speak

I followed my feet along the dirt road; they were all I could see. I kept my eyes down, refusing to look up and take in my surroundings. I heard my classmates' bubbly voices and smelled the stale dust, making my nose hairs tingle. Wrapped up in my own little world, I began to wonder how I was going to communicate with a school of young children who do not speak the same language I do.

My heart raced as we made our way to the tiny, rural school of El Hato, Guatemala. Each Traveling School girl followed the other into the main courtyard, where a blur of kids of all ages frantically ran around playing games. The colors captivated me and drew me into the scene. I timidly watched the swirl of energy flow around me. I notice some boys kicking around a worn out plastic ball and thought of my old elementary school where we had an endless amount of playground toys. The atmosphere here at the school felt comfortable, homey, and inviting. Teachers casually monitored their rambunctious students, and everyone had bright smiles stretched across their faces. I felt relaxed and reflective. My earliest memories of school recall uptight, strict teachers adhering to rigid schedules. Though I had only just arrived, these kids seemed happy to be here, in no rush to grow up.

The bravest girls in our group walked straight up to the kids and began excitedly playing games with them. In return, the young students swarmed them with smiles and positive energy. Others of us took a more timid approach. I felt I did not possess the confidence to strike up a conversation with these high-spirited kids.
Suddenly, I found myself standing alone in the middle of the courtyard. Embarrassed that I had not yet moved, I felt my lack of confidence was entirely too pathetic. I took deep breath and walked up to two comical boys playing fútbol (soccer).

¨Hola chicos. ¬¿Como están? ¨ I said in a shaky voice.

¨Bien, ¨ they laughed. The barrier was broken, we had already made a connection. A light went on inside of me and inspired me to dive into conversation with my new friends. After learning their names, I realized they were more interested in playing fútbol with me than entertaining my questions. I barely had the chance to kick the ball before I was mobbed by more kids.

A sea of smiling little heads bobbed around me. A few inquisitive children noticed the camera gangling from my wrist.

¨¿Puedo sacar un foto?¨ They squealed in unison as they grabbed my hand. I obligingly handed over my camera to a bashful little girl. As we walked over to some steps, she began rapidly snapping photos of everything around her.

¨¿Como te llamas?¨ I kneeled down and asked her.

¨Marysol, ¨ she said shyly. Curious to know more, I asked her how old she was, and how many siblings she had.

¨Tengo siete años, y tengo cuatro hermanos,¨ she answered. The more we talked, the more comfortable we grew with one another. Words continued to pour out of my mouth. My conjugations and tenses might have been a bit off, and my non-existent accent butchered a few words here and there; still, she did not seem to care. I realized she felt genuinely happy to share my company. I felt honored to be her new playmate. She was a kid, she did not judge me. She was not there to correct my pronunciation or make me feel inadequate as a Spanish speaker. To her, school meant fun and learning.

Learning a new language can be both challenging and entertaining. Yet in order to actually use a new language and truly learn it, you have to interact with new people. It can be awkward to wander outside your element of comfort and familiarity. Interacting with the children of El Hato not only improved my Spanish; it gave me a better understanding of people. I learned that if you put in the effort to authentically communicate with someone, they are most likely going to listen. By taking that first step, all you can do is get better.

I left my comfort zone in the U.S. exactly one month ago, and have since traveled through diverse areas of Guatemala and Mexico. With two and a half adventurous months left to go, I am enjoying every moment more and more as I shed my discomfort and bravely interact with the amazing individuals I meet along the way. I have sparked conversations with wise Alejandro, our raft guide down the peaceful Lancanja River; Mario, our humorous and good-natured shuttle van driver to Lanquin, Guatemala; Koky, our boisterous guide through the eerie bat caves; and flamboyant César, our energetic tour guide through the breath taking Mayan ruins of Tikal. Already having rapidly expanded my Spanish skills, I know I have much more to learn. I am now able to maintain conversations that flow without holding back what I want to say. Every day I look forward to who I will meet next and the inspiring conversation to come.

By: Robin


Hamacas y Pescado

She sifted her fingers through the sand as she nervously thought and wondered what she wanted to be when she grew up. Her gaze focused on her doodles in the sand. Thoughts scurried from her mind down to her wiggling toes. Her sun-kissed skin glowed as we casually sat together under a thatched-roof palapa. She rubbed her lips together and began to hum. Slowly lifting up her head she blurted,
¨A teacher.¨
Mandy is a twelve-year-old girl who lives in quaint, relaxed Chiquistepeque, Guatemala. This tiny town sits on edge of the vast Oceano Pacifico. It is made up of thatched-roof cabanas scattered along the shoreline. Palm trees sway in the wind as a cool breeze accompanies you throughout the day. In this mini-paradise lives a couple named Elfego and Anna. Elfego is a friendly local Guatemalan, and Anna is a kind-hearted woman from France. Together, the two of them have organized a project, Hamacas y Pescado, to benefit the children who live in this little fishing town.
¨We never meant to start the project, it just happened,¨ Anna tells me as we eat a delicious homemade dinner. Monday through Friday kids come to draw, read and play rombe cabezas (Puzzles). Anna and Elfego spend an hour and a half each weekday entertaining and teaching the kids. When lucky enough, tourists come, and some want to volunteer for the project. If so, after the little kids come and play, English classes are held for the older kids. This is where I met Mandy.
I approached her as she gossiped away with some friends.
¨¿Puedo hacer una intrevista contigo?¨
¨Ah, claro,¨ she responded shyly. While talking with her I learned that she was in the sixth grade and loves school.
¨My favorite class is math because I like to divide, but I like learning everything.¨ Knowing that after elementary school, education in Guatemala is not free, I asked if her parents paid for her education. She responded that only her mom does. Curious, I asked, why only her mom? Where was her dad?
¨En Los Estados Unidos, en California.¨ Her response further piqued my curiosity. We dove deeper into conversation. I asked her what her mother did for a living. To my surprise, I found out that she is not a typical Guatemalan woman, she is a pescadora (fisher woman). Everyday her mom wakes up early to fish, and then returns home to cook, clean, and look after her kids. Mandy, continuing to draw in the sand, assures me that she helps out a lot at home. After school she walks home and immediately begins her homework. She then proceeds to clean the house, and if she is available, will go to English class. She enthusiastically tells me how she loves the English classes.
¨I like to meet all the tourists that come, I like knowing someone not from here.¨ As our conversation began to end, I felt as if I had made a new friend, and that the proyecto (project)Elfego and Anna created has grown into a place where kids from all over town can come and interact with each other; forgetting about the economic disparities that may otherwise keep them separate. I am honored to have been a part of this project that is making such a difference in lives of Chiquistepeque's children.

A Dozen Personalities

Robin Bauman is a seventeen year old Junior enrolled at the Bosque School in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is currently attending a spring semester with The Traveling School, an all girls high school study abroad program, which seeks to enrich the lives of young girls and broaden their worldview. This is the second of two articles she has written for her Travel Journalism class while traveling through Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras for three and a half months with fifteen other students and four teachers.

The hot sand burns my feet as I sit patiently on the beach waiting for my turn to attempt the rolling waves of Punta Roca, El Salvador on a surfboard. Amused by the spectacle of my fellow classmates tumbling and rolling in the crashing waves, I smile to myself and reflect on the adventurous journey we have experienced together thus far . . .

This is the story of twelve teenage girls, picked from different states across the nation to live together in four foreign countries for three and half months. Though strangers at first, they were rapidly introduced to the reality of living comfortably with one another. This is what happens when typical high school is left behind and twelve brave teenage girls enter a world where they truly have to learn on the go. . .

We replaced our flimsy flip-flops for sturdy pairs of hiking boots. Our wardrobe consists of a couple of wrinkly shirts, to pairs of anywhere pants and a skirt to look polished on the go. Here, dressing up for a night out means finding the cleanest shirt you can, waking up at seven o´clock in the morning is considered sleeping in, and a five minute warm shower is considered a luxury. Each girl has adapted to living in a dorm room, or tent, crammed full of other girls, and everyone gets excited over the presence of testosterone. Meet the twelve, hard-core, diverse ladies of The Traveling School´s thirteenth semester. . .

Clarissa, determined to stand up, turned back into the waves, pushing her enormous board into the foaming surf, refusing to stop until she gets to her feet on a wave. This intelligent girl with an artistic style is from the sunny beach city of Santa Monica, California. She can always be picked out of the group by her unique laugh, mature perspective, and solid individualism. With her calming personality, dedication to learning, and heightened awareness of the world, she sets the bar high and the rest of us strive to reach it.

¨She´s really thoughtful and smart. She knows so much about the world and her place in it. It´s nice to talk to someone who is so sure of themselves, ¨ says classmate Anna H. from York, Maine.

Her arms flailing in the air, Anna H. never let go of her straight face and determination to ride the white foam sliding onto the shore. At age fifteen, she is the baby of the group, but one cannot tell her age due to her mature mentality. She challenges her fellow classmates with her deep and poetic thinking. Her courageous ability to recite and write poetry keeps the group inspired. Her artistic style is represented from the way she dresses to the way she writes and her welcoming presence and quirky comments make her a friend to everyone.

¨She is the type of person who knows her limits and knows what she is comfortable with, ¨ says McKenna from Seattle, Washington.

McKenna glides her hand into the water as she knee boards her way onto the shimmering black sand with a smile stretched across her face. At first this sweet-natured, reserved girl tended to hangout on the sidelines, but now she has grown to be strong and confident. She brings a peaceful energy that keeps everyone calm. With a kind heart that truly cares about the group, she is always there to give a sincere compliment.

¨She has blossomed into a butterfly, and will always be willing to try something new, ¨ says Charlotte, from Sherman, Connecticut.

Dancing on her board in the glittering sun Charlotte, nicknamed ¨Cheese,¨ is always able to find the fun in every situation. This peppy cheerleader has an endless amount of energy and is rarely seen in a bad mood. Her laugh is infamous among the rest of the girls, and her self confidence radiates in everything she attempts. The group would not be the same without her positivity.

¨It makes sense she is a cheerleader, she is always cheering everyone on and loves doing it, ¨ says Clarissa.

My eyes squint from the blazing sun´s glare as I scan the beach. Out in the distance I spot a girl pop up to her feet as she scrambles to keep balance on the board. My eyes finally recognize who it is. It is Anna W. from Scarborough, Maine. This athletic girl has incredible self motivation, and her uplifting attitude gets the group moving. She puts the group before herself and is known and loved for this act of kindness. Her adventurous spirit and natural athleticism makes her a key team player.

¨She is genuinely excited to try new things and enjoys every experience we have, ¨ says Elizabeth from Woodstock, Vermont.

Done with the annoying surfboard, Elizabeth, better known as Biz, lays on the beach soaking up the rays as her skin glows in the mid-day sun. She has the Italian feistiness of a Soprano. Her opinion is always appreciated, and her sarcastic comments and comical facial expressions make it impossible not to love her. She is the rock of the group, always there to give you valuable advice. Her knowledge and insightfulness helps guide us all on this hard life journey.

¨She has a very strong voice, and focuses her strength to help the group accomplish a goal, ¨ says Greta from Bozeman, Montana.

I watch Greta tumble off of her board for the twentieth time, amazed that she never let these consistent wipe-outs frustrate her. This tall, local music loving, pro-active citizen never fails to lend an ear to a friend in need. Her easy-going, non-judgmental personality is always accompanied by a genuine smile. She has the ability to keep the group relaxed with her level-headedness and stability.

¨I really admire how she fights for what she cares about. She is really sweet and caring towards everyone, ¨ boasts classmate Mallory from Charlotte, North Carolina.

Mallory effortlessly rides in on the end of a face wave, rocking the short board. Her ability to learn things fast makes her the best surfer in the group. She causes all of us to think critically and contemplate the deep thoughts and incredible insights she introduces. She is the thinker of the group, and people look up to her ability to learn and retain knowledge about everything around her. She has a mature, philosophical worldview, which makes it hard not to dive into conversation with her.

¨I can ask advice about anything, and I know I will get a thoughtful response full of wisdom, ¨ says Olivia from Belleview, Washington.

The water splashes Olivia´s face as she coasts in on her stomach. One can never forget her spunky attitude and ability to make everyone laugh. She is the entertainer of the group and her crazy, loud presence helps beat the dull moments. She is talented, outgoing, and easily gets along with everyone.

¨She loves to rap and sing, and always has fun ideas for the group, ¨ laughs Evelina from Florence, Italy.

She emerges from the surf dripping wet, smiling and sporting a bleeding cut on the bridge of her nose; a gift from the fin of her surfboard smashing into her face during a wipe-out. Evelina carries herself with a smooth European vibe. She is the life of the group, and everyone is entertained by her loud and goofy actions. Her humorous and loving personality always cheers people up. She is a magnet that all people are attracted to. The group admires her for her ability to make strong connections.

¨If you ever feel like being loud and want to do something crazy, go hang out with Evelina. She makes everything fun.¨ says Merritt from Asheville, North Carolina.

Merritt cruises into the beach gliding gracefully atop her board. This bubbly girl possesses a giggly attitude that is contagious. Her kindness towards the group makes everyone love her. She is the energizer, and has learned throughout this travel experience how much her worldview has changed. She has gained an incredible amount of awareness and has grown up a great deal.

¨Merritt will always be the first to run in the ocean or dance in the rain, ¨ laughs classmate Evelina.

I make up the twelfth player of this diverse team. I have a unique connection with each of these amazing women and see myself as the peacemaker of the group. Living together for three months we have become a big family of sisters. Although we love each other, we have to deal with travelers´ belly puke and foul moods on occasion, as well as the quarrels that come along with borrowing one another´s clothes and deciding who gets the top bunk. We have contradicting views and different ideas. Nevertheless, I can truly say I am honored to have spent three months living with this amazing group of girls. I have grown to love and appreciate everyone for the amazing individual they are.

The blood orange sun begins to set behind a glimmering Pacific ocean. I follow the sand footprints in front of me as we all head to the showers in a mob before another lovely dinner together. Clutching the surfboard tightly to my side, I quietly whisper to myself,

¨I could not ask for a better group of friends.¨

TTS13 Through the Eyes of Queso - A Collection of Travel Articles

Classrooms Without Walls

I swat an ant off the side of my paper as I finish the assignment and place my pencil down. Beads of sweat form across my forehead as the Guatemalan sun beats down on me. Behind a crumbling tower of limestone blocks, Montezuma Oropendulas bellow and Howler monkeys moan; suddenly I realize how far away I am from my bland local high school.

When my junior year at Shepaug Valley High School began, I felt bored and dreaded the long months ahead. School can be great but the years just seem to drag on. I knew I needed a change.

After searching for months online through educational exchange lists and databases, I found The Traveling School; a high school semester abroad program for girls based out of Bozeman, Montana. I immediately joined the program and on February 1^st, 2009, flew to Houston, Texas to meet my new classmates. After shoveling one last American meal into our gaping mouths at Fuddruckers Restaurant, we discussed our inspiration for wanting to leave our comfortable lives for three and a half months of travel. Luckily, the other girls felt the same as I did. Robin, 17, of Albuquerque, New Mexico said, “I was stuck in a routine... I was ready to do something different.”

Greta, 16, of Bozeman, Montana felt similarly. She said, “A lot of people complain about how they feel stuck in life. I do not want to be one of those people.”

We would all be spending the next fifteen weeks together exploring and studying while traveling through Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras. This unique program offers countless experiences but what makes it so special for me is the ever-changing classroom. Here, there are no walls, no limits to what we can learn.

Every class links directly to our surroundings which makes the content come alive. Instead of flipping through pages of textbooks and scanning photos of exotic places, we get to feel the humid climate, smell the tropical flora, hear the indigenous Mayan languages, see the ancient ruins, and even taste the local, spicy cuisine. Evelina, 17, of Florence, Italy stated, “That is The Traveling School- we do not sit around in a building; we surround ourselves with the curriculum.”

As a student in Advanced Spanish, I am given many opportunities to interact with locals. Elvis, our attractive cave guide at Semuc Champey, Guatemala flashed his pearly whites while commenting that most girls our age who live nearby usually have two kids by now. Na´kin, an elderly traditional Lacanja woman who makes a living creating alluring seed jewelry, squealed with excitement as she proudly boasted about her granddaughter learning the same arduous craft from her. Our burly guest speaker, Luis, from El Hato, Guatemala laughed heartily at our surprised reaction to learning that he taught English at the local elementary school, yet he did not know much of our language. I suppose I could read information like this in books but to actually hear about life in Central America from the people who live here exemplifies how I am able to get the most from my education.

From Spanish to Natural Science, I found my class nestled on a grassy knoll deep in the lush landscape of Antigua, Guatemala. We learned about different types of volcanoes while overlooking Fuego, one of three active volcanoes in Guatemala, as it launched its smoke into the air across the bustling valley below. We silently examined avocado trees as a large ash-gray mushroom cloud emerged from the cone.

The following day, we hiked up the side of the volcano Picaya. The heat emanating from the spewing lava helped warm us against the frosty winds thrashing our ponytails about. Would you get to munch on strawberry-flavored marshmallows roasted by the heat of molten lava with a high viscosity if you were back in your hometown? I think not.

My fellow classmate Merritt, 17, of Fairview, North Carolina loves how, “Everything I see and hear, I learn. It helps me make a personal connection.”

One of the best examples so far of how we surround ourselves with learning includes having history class while trekking through ancient, unearthed Mayan city states. There were no desks or inspirational posters taped onto walls. I contemplated different theories of the collapse of the Mayan Empire while seated inside one of the famous ball courts in Tikal, Guatemala. Temple ‌II towered above us which contained the tomb of King Chocolate (translated). According to recovered stone markers that documented Tikal’s history, called Stellaes, King Chocolate served as a mighty ruler for years during the height of Tikal’s Golden Age – and we were having class there! As groups of elderly tourists walked by with bulky cameras around their necks and souvenir T-shirts from a nearby tienda, their eyes gleamed with curious interest.

I am currently writing this article against an eroded piece of limestone, surrounded by sheep poop, in the rocky mountain tops of Chautuj. We backpacked thirteen miles today through rebuilt indigenous villages once destroyed during the recent civil war. The Traveling School is offering me the best learning environment I have been privileged enough to enjoy.

Anna, 15, of York, Maine says, “I love The Traveling School and I am so glad I put in the work to get here!” Traditional secondary education seems so spare and basic when compared to actually living amongst the cultures and within the environments covered in the curriculum. What we learn here is applicable to real life. Although at times it may sound like it, we are not here on vacation. We are hard-working, determined young women growing and learning much more than we ever have before.

Giovanni Smiled

He appeared as a patch of black hair and slits of curious eyes peering around the rough yellow-painted cement wall of the hut into our learning space. Two more pairs of eyes followed though his had a gleam that held my attention.

Our next encounter allowed me to see his mouth. His lips starkly stood out against his tanned Guatemalan skin. They only let short, quiet breathes through as he spoke.

¨¿Qué usted está haciendo?¨ His lips curled into a smile as I told him how we were reading as part of our science homework. I could have sworn they even opened a little to exhale a timid laugh.

That night, I was presenting the future tense to my Traveling School peers in Spanish class. We were playing a game in which we practiced the tense through moving and dancing. As we shimmied around, he viewed us from a distant. Hesitantly, he shuffled his barefeet through the sand closer and closer until he was less than five feet away. I am not certain how, but suddenly we were all entangled in a karate fight with him as our teacher. He showed us his moves, all in good fun, as he quickly, and smoothly, tackled my classmate, Clarissa, to the ground. He caught her before she touched the ground and helped her regain balance. The weathered sole of his right foot shot up into the air as he modeled his high kicks. The soles were dirty, blackened from the dark beaches that surrounded us. His father called him and he returned home, now with a little kick in his step.

From his home, he noticed me scribbling out the next day´s schedule on our foam whiteboards and he approached me. I pushed my spare marker in his direction and asked if he was interested in drawing. His petite fingers caressed the white plastic tube of ink as he directed it across the board. His nails were trimmed and clean, unlike the navy-blue Converse shirt he had been wearing. Slowly, his fingers glided across his art, rapidly erasing the bed he had drawn. I thought it was a sailboat. When it was time for me to depart, his fingers swiftly clicked the cap on the pen as he placed it in my lap.

When I next saw him, the sun had already fallen and risen. under the melting heat, we crossed paths on the outskirts of town; he stopped.

¨¿Tú sabes donde está la tienda?¨ I asked him. He did not have much time to respond before he ran off to help his mother. He pointed down the street and said,

¨Allí, hay una tienda buena.¨

Unfortunately, the recommended store did not satisfy my Fanta craving, so I scurried off to another one two blocks away. Minutes later, he appeared next to me, panting. His chest undulated gracefully as he explained how he had run to find me. Giovanni smiled.

Though only acquaintances for three days, our bond flowered. Maybe my fondness for the eight year old son of Carlos, the beach-house caretaker, in Chiquistepeque, Guatemala was because of his curiousity and kindness. We now have matching yellow and green bracelets. What I do know is that little Giovanni will always have claim to a little chunk of my heart.

Alfombras

With a stick of chalk in their right hand and a string pulled taut in their left, an excited groups of teenagers work diligently on their masterpieces. Numbers are scribbled meticulously at every angle and dimension. The working hands of five little boys and girls, their palms dyed an array of bright colors as they press and shape raw, organic materials into intricate designs in the center of a blocked off city street. Soft wads of paper, wood chips, coffee shells, and corn kernels ooze up from between the kid's chubby fingers. Women glisten with sweat while sitting on the sidewalk curbs with large plastic tubs clenched between their thighs. Their biceps flex as their arms mix salt with powdered dye. Men hover on a thin, wooden plank above a slab of this dyed salt. From this unique vantage point, they smooth the surface as if it were drying cement. Beyond the balancing men lies long strips of paper with swirly cutouts covering each piece entirely.

"Shhh." Paint particles spray out of a pair of airbrush guns splattering electric colors on a scratch piece of cardboard.

I am watching the difficult assemblence of hundreds of the infamous Alfombras in the Central Plaza of Juayua, El Salvador. Translated literally, an alfombra is a rug. Yet on Good Friday during Semana Santa (Holy Week), an alfombra refers to the carpets made of natural materials in the middle of city streets. Everyone from church groups, to boy scouts, and young friends and families spend hours on these large rugs depicting religious symblols and scenes. Angels can be seen drifting amid fluffy clouds while Mother Mary is on her knees praying.

There are numerous ways that these Alfombras are created. The most common tecnique is to spread materials like salt, wood chips, leaves and other organic matter into neat pieces of art. The materials are arranged into images or phrases can be written. People get very creative. Some even bring in large statues and flags, and trees and candles to adorn their Alfombra with.

All of their hardwork does not go to waste. A sacred procession departs from the tall, white cathedral at 7 PM and marches until 6 AM when Mass starts the next morning. The determined people cruise through the tired streets of the neighboring pueblos dressed in black robes and veils. They take turns carrying the platforms holding up 5 lifesize replicas of holy figures on their shoulders. Up to 24 men share the burden of marching Jesus's coffin alone through the streets for the entire 11 hour procession. They tread over the beautiful Alfombras that are strewn across the cement beneath their aching feet. Spiritually, it is very rewarding for the creators to see the procession shuffle from side to side on top of all of this art; slowing destroying the product of their time and sweat.

Every year during Semana Santa, beautiful Alfombras are created across Mexico and Central America. I recommend checking out the incredible rugs if you have any interest in witnessing an unparalleled cultural tradition!

Chicken Bus

Charlotte McConaghy, 17, a Junior from Shepaug Valley High School in Washington, CT is currently studying abroad with The Traveling School in Central America. Her fifteen week journey has taken her through Guatemala, Mexico, El Salvador, and Honduras with eleven other high school girls from different parts of the country. You can find more articles by Charlotte and her peers on their Travel Journalism blog: http://www.tts13tj.blogspot.com/

A feeling of loneliness trembled through my body as I stood on a crowded street in Panajachel, Guatemala with my teacher Rhea. We had just waved adios to our fourteen other Traveling School sisters. The two of us hoped to catch a chicken bus to the hectic city of Xela, in the center of the country. Rhea`s previous experiences on this type of transportation taught her to arrive a bit early so I was relieved when we saw El Paisaje del Flor roaring closer twenty minutes ahead of schedule. We rolled away from the bus stop, lounging in the second row, accompanied by only three other passengers; two women and a young girl. However, as our journey continued, more and more lively locals joined us.

The bus driver was a slim man, different from the pot-bellied drivers we had before. His hair was gelled and styled into a neat comb over. Not once during the chaotic drive did he seem to get flustered, even though we were swerving through narrow city streets packed with pedestrians at top speed. While an easy task for him, my face held a look of sheer terror.The bus driver had two bus buddies riding with him who helped run the route. One was dressed in a blue patterned button-up shirt and worn cowboy boots. He slid easily up and down the aisle collecting everyone`s fare. The other gentleman was older and the smallest of the trio. His lips moved at lightning speed as he shouted the destination of our bus to those we passed.

"¡Centro! ¡Centro! ¡Centro!" He bellowed, his body hanging out of the open door, into the strong wind. His rapid-fire shouts could beat out an auctioneer any day.

While still within the city limits, twenty more passengers joined us. Amidst the men in dark jeans and women in colorful blouses, there were also many teenagers in school uniforms. Four girls stepped up the stairs in evergreen pleated skirts and black, polished flats. Their Polo's were bright white with a large emblem stitched above their hearts. They took the seats behind us and whipped make-up out of their backpacks. By the time they departed, they sported Converse shoes, heavy eyeshadow, and pinned-up hair.

One by one, more passengers climbed on; it did not take long before a woman sat beside me. She wordlessly fit herself into our two-person seat, not ashamed to use her wide hips to nudge my willowy frame over a bit. The smiling woman must have had at least sixty years under her traditional gold and blue hand-crafted belt. It held up bolts of dark wool fabric wrapped tightly around her waist. Tucked into this belt was her intricately-embroidered huipil. Every square inch of her shirt was sewn with red, yellow, brown, green, and orange thread to form a collage of flowers. She appeared delighted when I said, "Què vaya bien," as she stood to leave.

At this same stop, a large group of high school boys entered through the rear emergency exit. All I could see over the heads of the other passengers were their crazy hairstyles. They looked like moving versions of the posters one sees in a beauty salon as they are waiting for the stylist. Center parts, Mohawks, and slicked back ponytails bopped up and down as they took their seats. Most of them wore vividly colored T-shirts with Hollister written down their sides in white. Thin cords shot from their ears trailing down to handheld MP3 players. I wondered how many miles I would have to travel before I could finally escape U.S. consumerism.

A man carrying a briefcase suddenly skipped aboard and broke my train of thought. He stood at the front of the bus waiting for everyone to get settled into the crammed seats. I soon realized that his briefcase did not contain papers and files, rather it was filled with his trademark, one-of-a-kind cocoa cream.

"It can solve all of your daily ailments from cracked hands to tired feet," he announced in a booming Spanish voice across the moving bus. After making a few sales, he stepped off into the heat where I pictured him waiting for the next bus full of potential clients to pitch his magic product to. I contemplated how he ever knows where he is going or how to get home.

The bus groaned as we slowly climbed higher into the mountains. The door opened and a cool gust of wind rustled my hair. A mother and a daughter clambered up the steps and took the available seat in front of us. The daughter`s long, dark braid fell over the back cushion as she sat. The braid whipped back as she twisted around to peek at me. Her almond-shaped eyes were small on her perfectly oval face. When she realized I had caught her spying on me, she pretended to be examining her rough hands instead of the only two gringas on the rickety chicken bus. The top of her hands were dry and scaly. Again, her eyes darted in my direction under a set of large eyebrows that neatly blended into her hairline. Our eyes met and I took the opportunity to smile at her. Behind her chapped lips peeped a set of small, uneven teeth. She turned away again.

Glancing out the window, cloudy with grime, I changed my focus to the mountainous terrain we passed. Deep ravines cut through high plateaus trailing into a village low in the valley. Amongst small boulders was a sign covered in stickers that read,

"Xela 1 Kilometer."

The larger bus buddy made a scramble to collect the last of the fares before passengers had a chance to leave. Instead of scattered huts, creme-colored brick buildings now flashed across the window over Rhea`s lap. At the noisy terminal, the bus squealed to a stop. Once the door opened, everyone slowly and patiently filed out the door, transforming the untamed beast into an empty metal lunch box. Rhea and I took our packs off of our sweaty laps and slung them across our shoulders. We stepped onto the hot city pavement and strode through endless rows of vibrantly colored chicken buses, ready to face our next adventure.

Conquering The Caves

As our chatty group of 16 young women from The Traveling School entered the cave in Lanquin, Guatemala, I experienced a moment of panic and thought, “What am I getting myself into?!” Koky, our 15 year old local guide, led us into a cave full of bats, giant spiders, and I could only imagine what else. The limestone floor felt exceptionally slippery and I could not help but think to myself, “I hope I don’t fall and sprain my ankle!” Climbing higher up narrow steps and ladders I suddenly realized I had a new opportunity to conquer my fear of heights. When I am at great heights, my stomach fills with flying butterflies and my palms begin to drip with sweat.
“Here goes nothing!” I sighed to myself. The cave scene before me resembled the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland; the dimly lit path and narrow hand railings guided us as we proceeded further into the cave. Koky stopped, pointing out a rock formation containing ancient animal hieroglyphics. My favorites included what appeared to resemble a giant toad with boils popping out its skin. I felt a pang of guilt when Koky explained that the oil from so many tourist fingerprints causes the limestone to disintegrate.

Suddenly, my train of thought was broken by a giant spider that sent shivers up my spine and quickly scurried behind a glistening rock. I focused on keeping my feet in constant motion to erase the eight legged creature from my mind.

Time slipped away as we walked through the darkness and before I knew it, we reached the mouth of the cave. Here is where the real show began. The sky grew dark; Koky explained we were about to see the cave's entire population of bats fly out at once for their evening dinner prowl. I ducked as bats flew rapidly over my head. Numerous cameras began to flash upon them like lightening striking.

I survived my first cave expedition! I knew the next day we would continue on exploring another cave, again challenging my fear of heights. In the morning, we found ourselves swimming up to our necks in cold water and scrambling over limestone by candle light. Climbing up shaky ladders held by only a few thin ropes reignited my sense of fear. This time, I would not allow it to take over me. As I continued climbing steep ladders and walking up slippery steps, I was reminded of rock climbing in Seattle, Washington with my dad. When we climb, I feel the same fear no matter how many times I attempt the same wall. Dad will then tell me, “You’re not going to fall!” I held onto that thought throughout the day's many scary moments. I knew I could conquer my fear of heights.

Just as the tour came to an end, I felt strong, supported by my peers, and encouraged to keep going. With the motivating thought of my dad and me climbing, I knew I was capable of anything; all it took was support, confidence, and a little help from the bats.

By: McKenna



An Unforgettable Experience

Chiquistepeque, on the pacific Guatemalan coast, is a small fishing town. Our group of 16 young women stayed in a beach house with bunkbeds and hammocks on the porch, overlooking the pacific ocean. The smell of the salty water filled the air as all of us got settled in after a sweaty chicken bus ride. Many of us were eager to shower and rest in the chairs and hammocks, or head down to the refreshing water for a quick dip in the salty ocean.

Our days were spent innteracting with the local children who attend English classes in the biblioteca, located a five minute walk from our beach house. The biblioteca is a part of the Hammacas and Pescasdo project created by our new friends Anna and Elfego. This project provides the children with books, activities, English lessons, and games. Anna and Elfego also provided our group with delicious, homemade meals. Usually Anna and Elfego never cook for people, nor do any travelers ever stay in the beach house we were able to rent out. Most visitors stay in the rustic cabanas near their house and eat with their neighbor Annabelle. Our group is magically lucky; we got to be the first people to stay in the beach house.

Our time spent in Chiquistepeque seemed too short. I enjoyed innteracting with the children immensly. Many of them were extremely shy yet opened up to our group after we taught a few English lessona and played games with them. This relaxed environment and meaningful opportunity left me with lasting memories. There is nothing better than positively interacting with local children while overlooking the beautiful pacific ocean.


From Homebody to World Traveler

McKenna Bjorkelo is a senior at Nathan Hale High School in Seattle, Washington. For the second semester of her senior year she chose to study abroad in Central America with The Traveling School, an all girls program based out of Bozeman, Montana. The Traveling School offers students the opportunity to earn high school credits while exploring different countries.

I used to call myself a homebody. I never had the intention to travel and I felt more at ease in the comfort of my own home. I tended to stick with what was familiar to me and avoided trying new things. Usually the quiet one, I rarely spoke up for myself and stuck to a basic routine; go to school, go home, eat and sleep. Those days are long gone, I hardly even recognize that girl anymore. When I heard about The Traveling School from a friend of my mother's, who said I was the perfect candidate, I eagerly applied and was accepted to attend the spring 2009 Central America semester with 11 other girls ages 15-18 years old. I had to decide whether or not I could leave my family and friends behind for such a long period of time. After many long talks with my parents, I decided I had to take this unique, once-in-a-life-time opportunity. After having traveled for 3 1/2 months to four foreign countries with this amazing group of young women, I have seen many changes in myself. For example, I have developed a desire to travel in the future to places like Peru, Europe, and Africa. I have adapted to the many new environments our group has traveled through. At first I was surprised to see garbage in the streets, simple tin-roofed homes, and homeless dogs roaming around. I have remained in a state of culture shock ever since as we are exposed to new things everyday. I learned to become independent as well. Before this trip, I relied on my parents for money and never thought twice about how much I spent. Throughout this trip we were required to create budgets and keep track of all the money we spent. I had never made a budget before, now I cannot imagine my life without one. I have had many "firsts" on this trip, including using a debit card and wearing a money belt under my clothes. I have become so much more aware of my surroundings. I have to constantly be responsible for myself and my belongings. Most importantly, I have opened up to the whole group and now feel more self-confident in school, speaking Spanish in public, and interacting with communities. I am surprised by the different person I have become during this semester abroad. The Traveling School gave me an amazing educational experience that I will never forget.

Merritt´s Articles

The World Without Rose Shaded Lenses

The warm sun shining down reflected off the water pooled in potholes along the dusty road. Emily, my enthusiastic Spanish teacher, and I walked, our voices rising and falling with the cacophony of daily sounds emerging from the surrounding community. Roosters crowing, dogs barking, and little kids shrieking comprise the daily sounds of El Hato, Guatemala.
I take it all in, this brightly colored, multifaceted culture so new to me. El Hato, meaning “The Herd”, is a quaint village tucked beneath three breathtaking volcanoes; its simplicity and charm, immediately eliminated the preconceived notions I packed with me on this trip. I found myself particularly struck by local patterns of daily life and the unique family dynamics I observed.
Family life in El Hato, Guatemala greatly contrasts with what I experience back home in North Carolina. Walking along the maze of red dirt that connects the cluttered tin- roofed community, I peek through little windows of village life.
A tiny boy of about seven, with soiled clothes and a dusty face, grinned up at me as he swung a massive machete to chop wood with his dad in their small dirt yard. A group of girls between the ages of four and eight clad in colorful, long, traditional Mayan skirts, galloped over to me giggling and begging to have their picture taken.
“¡Un foto!¡Un foto!” They yelled excitedly as they scrambled to get in front of the magic lens. In the thick of the commotion, I failed to notice a monstrous, bulky knife one of the girls clutched in her hand by the blade. They were so comfortable casually handling a tool I find petrifying, which startled me. I would never come across these situations strolling along the streets of Fairview.
Little girls worked alongside their mothers, elbow deep in soap suds, scrubbing clothes at the pila while other kids their age get to spend the day at school. Passing us barefoot on the well-traveled road, girls as young as six carried the burden of their baby brothers and sisters on their backs with brightly patterned slings. These mature young girls exhibited as much attention and compassion to the infants and toddlers in their care as any mother would. Witnessing such genuine tenderness causes my heart to swell with admiration. This kind of youth responsibility is something I have seen very little of in my lifetime.
The difference between the grown-up children of El Hato and I is that they work for survival, while my parents have me do a few household chores after school to help me develop a sense of responsibility. I never gave much thought to chores I grumbled through back home, deeming them mundane, whereas these boys and girls chop wood, cook, and wash clothes to keep their families alive. These inspiring youth are years ahead of me in terms of having a heightened sense of community, family, and survival.
The chance to permanently ingrain this mental snapshot of one sharp black and white contrast in cultures opened my eyes and changed my world view. The children of El Hato face challenging hardships and seem forced to grow up too quickly. Despite the grownup weight of duty resting upon their tiny shoulders, I see a fighting spirit within each of them and believe they will continue to strive for a better life. These children I have encountered on my journey this far, have eyes that shine with Guatemalan fire.


Little Handed Love

“¡Uno! ¡Dos! ¡Tres!” I yell, accompanied by a chorus of five little voices surrounding me. Standing on the shores of the beach town Chiquistepeque, Guatemala, a group of little girls cling to me. Flor, gripping my right hand, Angelica and Anna fighting over my left hand, Marysol under my right arm clinging to my waist, and little Amelia in front of me clutching my shorts and bracing herself against my legs. We were a pretty ridiculous sight, especially as we attempted to jump at the same time, not very successfully, over the wave that was crashing and rumbling toward us. The girls let their legs be taken out from under them, getting caught by the force of the break, and tried to take me down with them. Their shrieks and laughter escalated as they brought me closer to the water. With a squeal, I pulled them all out of the water just before another monstrous wave could take us all down.
The blazing sun reflected off of the clear, green-blue water and mixed with afternoon heat waves in a spotless blue sky. As the black sand oozed between my toes, I giggled and squealed along with my new best friends; at my happiest. Nothing could bring me down from the emotional high and adrenaline rush caused by the love and kindness radiating from these girls. They guided me along with their little hands and showed me warmth that, as an outsider, I have been craving. For one day, they gave me a home away from home.


The Death of the Alfombra

Awakening to the sound of voices outside our window, Queso, my oddly nicknamed friend, and I flailed around in the dark as we tripped over piles of books, clothes, and bags that were strewn all over the floor. Throwing on decent clothes, we stumbled out into the common room and met with our teacher, Cara. Together, the three of us silently crept out the hostal’s front and onto the cobblestone street.
Though it was only 3 a.m., the streets were crowded. Little kids, teenagers, and adults milled about the dimly lit intersection. Most of the boys were clad in black, floor length robes with white trim and a matching sash. The outfit was topped off with a white veil that stood out in the darkness and bobbed up and down as they spoke in hushed tones. The haziness of sleep wore off as we sat on the corner in front of our bright orange hostal, Anahuac. Feeling slightly out of my comfort zone, I took a look around me, people gazed at the alfombra my classmates and I created earlier that day as well as the new one bordering it. An alfombra is a carpet of materials such as beans, salt, and wood chips that are traditionally made on roads for the week of Semana Santa through out Central America. We had inspired neighboring children to make an alfombra of their own which connected to ours. A colorful design of wood ships, corn, beans, and dyed salt, the alfombra, our pride and glory, was about to be trampled by the procession.
The procession had left Juayua at seven o’ clock at night and was just now coming back from its trek around several other pueblos. It crawled up the street toward us, led by three little boys swinging lanterns of copan (insense). The clearly lit up glass casket of Jesus was hoisted on the shoulders of about twenty four men. A smaller platform followed, perched on the shoulders of women. The whole ordeal was decked out in the same robes and moved as one, swaying the lighted platform from side to side in time with the music. The band followed closely behind, towing a generator to keep the display ablaze.
This dedicated congregation of men, women, and children marched through the night for hours on end, cheered on by die hard crowds lining the streets, all in the name of their faith.

Kindness, Encouragement, and a Warm Tortilla

Merritt Smail, from Fairview, North Carolina, is spending the spring semester of her junior year in Central America with The Traveling School, an all girls high school study abroad program based out of Bozeman, Montana. This is the second of two articles written for her Travel Journalism class and describes her experience visiting the pueblo of Las Pavas, El Salvador, with a Peace Corps volunteer.


My apprehension increases as Biz, Thea, Emily, and I trek up the dusty dirt road, dripping with sweat in the sweltering heat on our way to eat dinner at separate houses in the community. Emily, a Peace Corps volunteer from Wisconsin, is hosting a small group of us in her home for four days. It is a ten minute walk from Emily’s house to the house of Niña Ava, who will be my new mom during my stay in Las Pavaz.
¡Con permiso! Emily calls out as we approach the modest house. In answer, Glendy, Ava’s nineteen year old daughter comes around the corner of the porch to greet us with an awkward hug/kiss combination. Emily then explains in her smooth, practiced Spanish how my Spanish is very limited as I memorize the marks and holes on my converse shoes, slightly embarrassed. After a few more moments of rapid-fire Spanish, I am left to fend for myself with a basic Spanish vocabulary and unique ability to play charades.
Not quite sure what to do with the gringa, Glendy leads me to a plastic chair on the porch, the best seat at the table. I take in the view of her yard, littered with mango peels being pecked at by chickens. As soon as I sit down, Niña Ava bustles out of the kitchen to greet me wearing a flowing blouse and skirt layered with an apron. Her long black hair is pulled back with a clip and she smells of warm tortillas. Her wide, inciting smile crinkles the edges of her bright brown eyes. A soft, comforting hug immediately releases all of my nervous energy and replaces it with a welcoming warmth.
Feeling more at ease, I make myself more comfortable at the table with Glendy sitting across from me. Struggling to fill the growing silence, I am suddenly rescued by the solid beats of a reggaeton song drifting towards us from down the calle.
“¡Ahh, me gusta la musica!” I exclaim. Glendy’s face automatically brightens. Grabbing my hand, she pulls me out of my seat, drags me to her room, sits me down on one of the beds, and puts a pair of headphones in my ears. A reggaeton song I recognized from the pirated CD booths on the streets blasts through the white plastic earphones. Getting into the rythym, I start doing a little dance, bouncing around on the bed.
“¿Te gusta bailar?” Glendy asks me with a giggle.
“¡Si! Mucho. ¿Y usted?” I reply
“¡Si!” She answers excitedly and jumps up from her spot on the floor over to a boom box. “Gasolina,” by Daddy Yankee thumps out of the speakers and I bounce off the bed to join Glendy and together we swing our hips and shimmy to the rythym, both of us laughing and acting ridiculous. Attempting to copy the insanely complicated dance moves Glendy pulls off with a flourish, I trip all over the place, the typical gringa with two left feet. After making a complete fool of myself, I decide it is time for me to get into my element and teach Glendy how to salsa. Giggling our way through the “one and two, three and fours,” we gain an audience of her brother Orlando, her cousin Lupita, and Ava. After showing off our moves, we all settle onto the floor and I am introduced, through a photo album, to the rest of the family who reside in the U.S. Two of Glendy’s brothers live in New York.
For four days, I was a part of Ava’s family. They taught me how to pat tortillas (which is a lot harder than it looks) as well as make papusas and pasteles de platanos. Ava always encouraged me with a smile and a “¡Si se puede!” The whole family took part in teaching me Spanish. While I sat at the table visiting, Ava, Glendy, Orlando, Lupita, and Jose (Glendy’s father) would come up to me holding an object, identify it in Spanish and then quiz me on it at random times. They taught me everything from body parts and cook ware to dinosaurs and a picture of The Last Supper. As a nervous beginning Spanish speaker, I am petrified of practicing aloud. However, the enthusiasm and encouragement they provided me with inspired me to try harder. By the end of my stay, I went from meekly choking out a “¿Como estas?” To having conversations with Glendy about school, boys, our pasts, and what we want to do in the future.
The time I spend in Las Pavas taught me more than how to pat a tortilla. I became part of a family and was shown true kindness, encouragement, generosity, trust, and love. I will forever hold these people, these memories, close to my heart.



By: Merritt