As I put on my third layer of clothes I started having flashbacks of Michigan winters with the fierce cold and spine-tingling winds, but as the first drop of sweat across my brow turned into a flood, reality set it - I was on a remote mountainside in the sweltering Guatemalan sun with Genaro about to harvest honey from 18 colonies of very territorial bees. I made it out without a sting, and as you can imagine, I smother everything I can with fresh honey thanks to our little friends.
When I arrived at IMAP, I wasn't sure what to expect, but I walked into a multi-lingual, multi-cultural, inter-generational atmosphere of perfect proportions. We are a team of about 10-12 people between 14 and 40, and all of the folks at the center speak in Kaqchikel first, one of 26 Mayan languages in Guatemala, and Spanish second. Here, I have continued learning a tremendous amount about the complicated, often sad, and just as often beautiful history and culture of Guatemala. The patience and willingness to share that Genaro, Ramiro, Ronè, and Chus have shown me is not something I will ever forget.
My first few days I was relegated to the top bunk in a house full of volunteers, which kept me safe from finding any scorpions in my bed, but of course, this didn´t stop me from getting zapped by one when I got out of the shower the other day. I had to cut off the third toe on my left foot to stop the venom from ascending my leg. Alas.
Here, the stories and traditions abound. For example, if you come across a hidden tunnel into one of the mountains, of which there are many, be careful because the elders say that time passes much quicker beneath the earth. 15 minutes below may cost you a day above. Ramiro passed on a trick from his grandfather about how to find a beautiful woman - something about braiding the hair of an ear of corn and reciting an old saying. I still have to sure up the details on this one. But there is certainly a pulsating current of old traditions and new, originated and imposed, and the obvious mix of them all. Stories of magic and folklore contend with those of strict religious observance, and everything inbetween.
To sum things up, the lake is the type of clear you hear about in distant lagoons, the food titilatingly fresh, and the air as crisp as a tortilla chip. Estoy contento aqui, muy contento.
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