Field Trip to the Marker February 1, 2015
Our Spanish school tries to have an activity every afternoon for its students to participate in when they're not in class. It gives us a closer look at the culture and offers the opportunity to practice Spanish. These activities consist of a movie on one day, a cooking class on another day, and field trips to all sorts of places on other days.
Last Friday, Bruce and I joined three other students and a staff member, Maria, to visit the market in Solola (So-lo-LA), a larger city (pop. 43,000) located about 10 very steep upward miles from Panajachel. We took a chicken bus, which is an experience it itself. These are reconditioned American school buses, fixed up to hold lots of baggage, with a door in the back, as well as the side. At 2 pm we set out walking from school, heading down to the busy main drag, Calle Principal, where we boarded a bus. The bus was already somewhat crowded but became much more so by the time that we left town, with most seats holding 3 adults, perhaps with a baby on a lap, and a few people forced to stand. Virtually everyone was Mayan, easily identifiable by their "ropa tipica" (traditional clothing). While it is very common, practically required, for the locals to travel on a chicken bus, it is a practice that Bruce and I are a little nervous to undertake, given what we've heard about the maintenance records and what we could see in terms of overcrowding. But, off we went, hoping for the best. The bus struggled to climb the steep incline, rounding sharp turns, hugging the side of the mountain while giving short beeps to warn on-coming traffic. The views of the lake and surrounding mountains on the other side were fantastico.
Our chicken bus - with a classmate and Bruce about to board.
Solola is the municipal center for the towns surrounding Lake Atitlan. It's a bustling place - but then, it seems that all of the towns that we've seen so far are the same. The weather promotes a life lived outdoors, and there is an energy and a communal sense that is so different from a northern clime like Maine, where the majority of our lives are spent closed up and private.
The market is a huge place, open to the weather but covered by a roof. You can buy just about anything there, including vegetables and fruits, meat, clothing - both tipico and contemporary, household items, CD's, shoes. We six wandered around, trying to get a sense of the place and trying to stay together. With no telephone, it did occur to me that I would be in trouble if I got separated from the group. At least I now have my feeble Spanish skills!
Market scenes
The market went on and on. Some vendors had stalls and shelves; others were splayed out on the floor. Some had young children with them while they worked. Some tried to entice us to their stalls by calling out to us. Others couldn't be bothered.
My maestra had told me that the prices in the Solola market are better than those in Pana, because there are fewer tourists. I was primed to buy a tablecloth, and fell victim to one of the first vendors we encountered. I always feel torn between engaging in the bargaining process, which is apparently expected, and wanting the craftspeople to receive a fair price. Maria stepped in and helped me to find a fair price, and I now have a lovely handwoven tablecloth in the tipico style.
mucha fabrica!
From the market we walked down to the big Catholic church overlooking the central park. It's always fun for us to see "real life". Along the way to the church, we passed an agricultural business selling baby chicks, another selling seeds for corn, a van selling cell phones while pumping out loud music, tiendas (small stores selling all manner of stuff), mobile carts selling ice cream or fried chicken or mobile phones: a panoply of entrepreneurship!
Selling mobile phones on the street
Little salespersons and their chicks
The church was a bit unusual with its rounded roof. Inside, it was very similar to others that we had visited in Europe.
We walked in respectfully, dropping a few quetzales in the cup of the woman begging at the entrance, and then found a seat inside where we could say a quiet prayer for the well-being of the Guatalmatecas - and ourselves and others. Often we are alone in a church, especially in Spain. In Solola, others had found their way to church to pray. I wonder if their need is greater here - or their faith.
Back on the street, we headed downhill to the cementario. It was a very interesting place, bisected by a wide sidewalk. Maria told us that, in past times, it was segregated, with Mayans on one side and wealthier ladinos, with bigger tombs, on the other. The tombs are very colorful. From afar, they look like a small village, perched on the edge of the city with a view of the mountains and the lake.
Cementario in Solola
As we left the cemetary, we encountered a funeral procession slowly making its way down the street toward us, a sea of somber black. We stepped off to one side. Two caskets were held aloft, swaying gently as they processed. Strangely, we thought, happy, hum-able, music could be heard. Carmelina told me later that the music is for the deceased, not for the living, and a band is often hired for funerals.
Our return ride was not as crowded. This bus had a younger driver and we zipped along, braking at turns in the road. We could smell hot rubber when we arrived safely down at Pana. As always, we had seen a big slice of life that was so different from our own.
Last Friday, Bruce and I joined three other students and a staff member, Maria, to visit the market in Solola (So-lo-LA), a larger city (pop. 43,000) located about 10 very steep upward miles from Panajachel. We took a chicken bus, which is an experience it itself. These are reconditioned American school buses, fixed up to hold lots of baggage, with a door in the back, as well as the side. At 2 pm we set out walking from school, heading down to the busy main drag, Calle Principal, where we boarded a bus. The bus was already somewhat crowded but became much more so by the time that we left town, with most seats holding 3 adults, perhaps with a baby on a lap, and a few people forced to stand. Virtually everyone was Mayan, easily identifiable by their "ropa tipica" (traditional clothing). While it is very common, practically required, for the locals to travel on a chicken bus, it is a practice that Bruce and I are a little nervous to undertake, given what we've heard about the maintenance records and what we could see in terms of overcrowding. But, off we went, hoping for the best. The bus struggled to climb the steep incline, rounding sharp turns, hugging the side of the mountain while giving short beeps to warn on-coming traffic. The views of the lake and surrounding mountains on the other side were fantastico.
Solola is the municipal center for the towns surrounding Lake Atitlan. It's a bustling place - but then, it seems that all of the towns that we've seen so far are the same. The weather promotes a life lived outdoors, and there is an energy and a communal sense that is so different from a northern clime like Maine, where the majority of our lives are spent closed up and private.
The market is a huge place, open to the weather but covered by a roof. You can buy just about anything there, including vegetables and fruits, meat, clothing - both tipico and contemporary, household items, CD's, shoes. We six wandered around, trying to get a sense of the place and trying to stay together. With no telephone, it did occur to me that I would be in trouble if I got separated from the group. At least I now have my feeble Spanish skills!
The market went on and on. Some vendors had stalls and shelves; others were splayed out on the floor. Some had young children with them while they worked. Some tried to entice us to their stalls by calling out to us. Others couldn't be bothered.
My maestra had told me that the prices in the Solola market are better than those in Pana, because there are fewer tourists. I was primed to buy a tablecloth, and fell victim to one of the first vendors we encountered. I always feel torn between engaging in the bargaining process, which is apparently expected, and wanting the craftspeople to receive a fair price. Maria stepped in and helped me to find a fair price, and I now have a lovely handwoven tablecloth in the tipico style.
From the market we walked down to the big Catholic church overlooking the central park. It's always fun for us to see "real life". Along the way to the church, we passed an agricultural business selling baby chicks, another selling seeds for corn, a van selling cell phones while pumping out loud music, tiendas (small stores selling all manner of stuff), mobile carts selling ice cream or fried chicken or mobile phones: a panoply of entrepreneurship!
The church was a bit unusual with its rounded roof. Inside, it was very similar to others that we had visited in Europe.
We walked in respectfully, dropping a few quetzales in the cup of the woman begging at the entrance, and then found a seat inside where we could say a quiet prayer for the well-being of the Guatalmatecas - and ourselves and others. Often we are alone in a church, especially in Spain. In Solola, others had found their way to church to pray. I wonder if their need is greater here - or their faith.
Back on the street, we headed downhill to the cementario. It was a very interesting place, bisected by a wide sidewalk. Maria told us that, in past times, it was segregated, with Mayans on one side and wealthier ladinos, with bigger tombs, on the other. The tombs are very colorful. From afar, they look like a small village, perched on the edge of the city with a view of the mountains and the lake.
As we left the cemetary, we encountered a funeral procession slowly making its way down the street toward us, a sea of somber black. We stepped off to one side. Two caskets were held aloft, swaying gently as they processed. Strangely, we thought, happy, hum-able, music could be heard. Carmelina told me later that the music is for the deceased, not for the living, and a band is often hired for funerals.
Our return ride was not as crowded. This bus had a younger driver and we zipped along, braking at turns in the road. We could smell hot rubber when we arrived safely down at Pana. As always, we had seen a big slice of life that was so different from our own.
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