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Speed Bumps

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A Poor Man’s Speed Bump: Just Stretch a Thick Rope Across the Road

It’s not unusual to find speed bumps or humps on suburban residential streets in the U.S., but Mexico and other Latin American countries put their speed bumps on major roads that cut through populated areas. In Mexico they were called topes; in, Guatemala, tumulos. It was in Honduras that I first encountered speed bumps that were thick ropes stretched across the highway. In the above photo, the rope is on the main street through Rio Dulce (a.k.a. Fronteras).

On the route I took from Copán, Honduras, to Rio Dulce, it seems that we went over a hundred or more speed bumps. Every community seemed to have them on the main highway from Zacapa to Puerto Barrios and the Petén.

 

 

Jungle Bus

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Bathroom Break at Poptún

There I was in Rio Dulce. I spent one day on a boat ride to and from Livingston, and another day trying to get information on how to get to Flores in the Petén. One of my guidebooks named two travel agencies that were on a street just north of Bruno’s, where I was staying. I spent hours going up and down streets and not finding anything that looked like a travel agency, let alone a shuttle bus service. Besides, I had the feeling that the type of people who hung out in Rio Dulce weren’t all that interested in visiting Tikal.

Finally, I decided to take a public bus to Flores. Litegua didn’t go there. I saw no office for Dorado. Fortunately, the Fuente del Norte (FDN) office was very helpful. There was a 9:30 AM bus for Flores for only 65 quetzales ($8.30 in dollars). The bus started in Guatemala City around midnight and wound up, some fifteen hours later in Flores. Technically, it was a first class bus; but I had been warned that Fuente del Norte was less than cream of the crop.

The next morning, I showed up at the FDN office just as it was opening around 9 AM. I sat down in the waiting room. Fortunately, the bus arrived just after 9:30. Being a de paso bus (i.e., filled with passengers from earlier points on the route). Sometimes, a de paso bus arrives filled to capacity with passengers; this one had space for all the passengers who were waiting at the Rio Dulce office. Among the passengers who a British and a German couple. Other than myself, the rest of the passengers were Maya.

I had been prepared for a grueling ride, and it was that. I was wearing an adult diaper in case the ride lasted long without any restroom breaks. (Fortunately, there was a bathroom break in Poptún, midway along the route.) The ride was fiercely uncomfortable because all the bus seats appeared to be broken in different ways. And, as the bus barreled down the highway at high speed, I felt I was being shaken, not stirred.

At least the bus got me there in one piece.

 

 

The Happiness Trap

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Ernest Hemingway Poses with a Water Buffalo in Africa, 1953-1954

Having just read Ernest Hemingway’s The Green Hills of Africa, I begin to understand why he shot himself in 1961. I had not read any Hemingway for over thirty years, and I realize now there was a reason for this. There was Papa H in Africa, frequently asserting how he loved the place and the people. Yet he is envious of another member of his hunting party, Karl, who is more successful in grabbing the big trophies. Even when he kills a kudu, which he has been trying to do for the whole length of the book, he has this dialog with Pop, the leader of the group, conscious that Karl has bagged a bigger kudu:

“We have very primitive emotions,” [Pop] said. “It’s impossible not to be competitive. Spoils everything, though.”

“I’m all through with that,” said. “I’m all right again. I had quite a trip, you know.”

The only problem is that I didn’t believe him. Again and again, Hemingway is hyper-conscious of competing, of looking good in the eyes of his fellow hunters and his native assistants. He talks about Droopy, a native tracker:

M’Cola [another tracker] was not jealous of Droopy. He simply knew that Droop was a better man than he was. more of a hunter, a faster and cleaner tracker, and a great stylist in everything he did.

At another point, Papa talks of his “wanting to make a shot to impress Droopy.”

Hemingway, too, was a great stylist—in his own way. The prose of The Green Hills of Africa at times rises to the level of poetry. In this, he falls victim to the happiness trap, of always wanting to be happy, of always overcoming hurdles and progressing from one triumph to another. But life is not like that. One must appreciate the little things, to behave prayerfully and thankfully when he has taken the life of some splendid game, to grab at the moments of happiness that are fleeting and resolve to slog manfully through all the merde with which a life is interlarded.

 

 

The Flip Side

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Lago de Atitlán at Night

My type of vacation is not all beer and skittles. Sometimes it’s downright anxiety provoking, especially when it comes to transportation issues. I wanted very much to see the market at Chichicastenango, but the ATITrans shuttle from Panajachel left only at 8:00 AM on Thursdays and Sundays. But I was staying at Santiago Atitlán, which is connected to Pana pretty much only via boat. (There is a road, but it is susceptible to hijacking.) I got sweats in the middle of the night worrying about whether I could make the connection.

So I arranged at the Posada de Santiago for a launch to pick me up at the hotel’s private dock at 6:00 AM, which gave me two hours to get to the ATITrans office via fast launch and tuk-tuk. The hotel assured me that the deal was done, for a mere 250 quetzales (roughly $32.00). At 5:15 AM, without my breakfast (the restaurant opened at 7:00 AM), I wended my way in the dark down the trail to the dock, which was fortunately well lit. At six sharp, I heard the launch and saw the headlights growing larger.

The ATITrans Office in Panajachel with List of Shuttle Destinations

They were right on time. We headed out before sunrise at high speed. It seemed we spent as much time in the air as on the surface of the lake. It was my bad luck that all four launch rides on the lake were on windy days with many whitecaps in evidence. But we made it to the public dock in Pana in three quarters of an hour. Fortunately, the tuk-tuks were already up and about, so I got to ATITrans with an hour to spare.

Fortunately, there was a fresh orange juice vendor setting up right across Calle Santander from me, so I had something of a breakfast after all. And in the end, I got to Chichicastenango in good time.

 

Henry Miller in My Life

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American Writer Henry Miller (1891-1980)

I started out with Henry Miller the (forbidden) writer of erotica. There were the Tropics, Black Spring, Sous Les Toits de Paris, and The Rosy Crucifixion trilogy. Then I started reading his nonfiction, and I began to think more of him, especially with The Colossus of Maroussi (1941), his travel classic about Greece; The Air-Conditioned Nightmare (1945), on his pessimism about America after the War; The Time of the Assassins (1946), an essay on Arthur Rimbaud;  and Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymous Bosch (1957), about his life in Big Sur. I have just finished reading Remember to Remember (1947), a sequel to The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, which is mostly about artists he has met.

Henry Miller is very much a Jekyll-and-Hyde type of author. He can run off at the mouth for dozens of pages—but then he can zero in a key point in some Buddhist burst of contemplation. And, what I like about him, his instincts are right. His pacifist essay in this book, “Murder the Murderer,” spends some ninety pages telling us that he is against war and killing. All well and good. No burst of contemplation there, though it took balls to be a pacifist in the final days of the Second World War. But then he impales Hollywood poseurs in a brilliant spoof entitled “Astrological Fricasse,” which may be the best short work of fiction he ever wrote.

The artists Miller recommends—painters Beauford DeLaney and Abe Rattner and sculptor Beniamino Bufano—are worth closer study. It seems that public opinion has caught up with them, though they were controversial when Miller wrote his book.

I will continue to mine Miller for the occasional rich vein that one comes across with no advance warning, particularly in his nonfiction.

 

 

Two Friends of Henry Miller

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Abe Rattner’s “Darkness Fell Over the Land” (1942)

I have been reading Henry Miller’s Remember to Remember (1947), his sequel to The Air-Conditioned Nightmare (1945). Miller has always been interesting to me, even when he descends into rant, as he not infrequently does. Where the earlier book talked about places, the sequel deals mostly with people. Two painters appearing in that book are Abe Rattner (1896-1978) and Beauford Delaney (1901-1979).

As you may know, I reject the tendency of much of 20th century painting, whether here or in Europe, to go in for abstract expressionism. That might well be of interest to interior decorators, but the result of that tendency is a body of work that, of itself, strikes me as empty. Colorful, perhaps, but not so much as inviting a second glance. Art has to represent something other than mere color and form. The literary equivalent might be a selection of adverbs or prepositions without any human context.

In “A Bodhisattva Artist,” Henry Miller expresses his unbounded admiration for Rattner as a person and for his work. such as the above illustrated “Darkness Fell Over the Land,” referring to the aftermath of the crucifixion. Rattner is an artist of the sacred, somewhat like Georges Rouault, but with both a Christian and a Jewish perspective.

Beauford Delaney’s “Jazz Club” (1950)

Beauford Delaney is an African-American artist who was born in Knoxville, Tennessee and died in Paris, France. Miller got to know him in New York, and wrote an essay about the painter and his work in “The Amazing and Invariable Beauford DeLaney.” He is considered to be a representative artist of the Harlem Renaissance, though when he moved to France, he converted (alas) to abstract expressionism.

According to the Wikipedia entry on him:

Delaney felt an immediate affinity with [New York’s] “multitude of people of all races – spending every night of their lives in parks and cafes” surviving on next to nothing. Their courage and shared camaraderie inspired him to feel that “somehow, someway there was something I could manage if only with some stronger force of will I could find the courage to surmount the terror and fear of this immense city and accept everything insofar as possible with some calm and determination.”

I am always interested in finding outliers to the predominant currents of art. Henry Miller, being no mean painter himself, did at times exhibit exquisite tastes.

 

Garifuna Guatemala

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Wait a Minute. Are We in Jamaica?

There are odd little corners of Guatemala where the normal culture does not prevail. I am thinking specifically of Livingston, Guatemala, where the majority population is still Maya, but where there is a significant black population.

After the British won the Seven Years’ War and took control of the Lesser Antilles. They sorted through the population of the island of St .Vincent: The inhabitants who were darker were banished by the victors to Roatán off the coast of Honduras. The inhabitants who were more Indian or Carib in appearance were allowed to stay. Over time, the banished blacks spread throughout the Caribbean coasts of Belize, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Currently, no roads lead to Livingston: Access is only by boat or shank’s mare.

The so-called Garifuna spoke an Arawakan language with elements of French, English, and Spanish.

Philip Flores, a Local Garifuna Guide

From Rio Dulce, I took an ASOCOLMORAN launch toward the river mouth and through the area known as El Golfete to the Caribbean port of Livingston. There I met with Philip Flores, a guide and local leader of the Garifuna population, and had an interesting conversation with him—in English. Philip had been to the U.S. and Europe and was well-versed not only in the ways of his community, but of the world at large.

We started out by sparring over how much each of us knew. Most tourists don’t know much about the places they visit. On the other hand, I usually read a pile of books about my chosen destinations, so I am not the usual tabula rasa. In the end, I found that much of what he had to say was interesting, so I had no problem in just listening. In the end, I gave him some money to be used for his work with local children.

If you should find yourself in Livingston, I suspect that Philip will be there to meet your boat.

 

 

Visiting the Maya Gods

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Maximón Flanked by Members of His Cofradía in Santiago Atitlán

I have some heterodox beliefs regarding God and the gods. I believe that God exists but wears many masks, appearing as Jesus, Allah, the gods of the Hindu pantheon, depending on the different types peoples around the Earth. I visited two Maya idols during my trip: Maximón in Santiago Atitlan and Pascual Abaj in Chichicastenango. I have written earlier about my intent to visit Maximón, in whose person are incorporated such figures as Judas Iscariot and the evil conquistador Pedro de Alvarado.

He is a Tzu’utujil Maya god of good and evil. During the day, a cigarette or cigar is kept burning between the idol’s lips, and he frequently imbibes rum or aguardiente (very high octane firewater). There is a brotherhood (cofradía) dedicated to taking care of the image of Maximón. Each year he occupies a different house belonging to one of the brotherhood.

I made an offering to the god, which was accepted by the cofradía and attached under the knot of his necktie as shown in the above picture. I asked him to aid me in the remainder of my trip to Guatemala and Honduras.

The Glass Coffin of Santa Cruz

Next to Maximón was a glass coffin containing an idol to Santa Cruz, who is in some unspecified way associated with Maximón.

From Santiago Atitlán, I traveled to Chichicastenango in the mountains. There, with he help of a guide, I climbed a hill to the shrine of Pascual Ab’aj. What remains after members of Catholic Action damaged the idol in the 1950s is a dark featureless rock, probably of volcanic origin. I had a difficult time climbing the trail, which contains over twenty switchbacks. Fortunately, my Quiché Maya guide Juan took a knife and made a staff for me.

What Remains of the Idol of Pascual Ab’aj with Offerings

There were numerous cement bases where copal incense had been burned. At the time Juan and I visited the shrine, there were no celebrants or members of the cofradía in evidence.

 

Going Colin One Better

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Colin Kaepernick Kneeling During the National Anthem

Why does our beloved country have such a stupid and unsingable national anthem? Whenever I hear it, I not only take to my knees, but my head hovers within ralphing distance of a toilet bowl.

The tune itself comes from “To Anacreon in Heaven,” the official song of the Anacreontic Society, an 18th century English gentleman’s club of amateur musicians. Just to show you the high quality of the original source, here is the first stanza—sung, of course, to the tune of “The Star-Spangled Banner”:

To Anacreon in heav’n, where he sat in full Glee.
A few Sons of Harmony sent a Petition,
That he their Inspirer and Patron would be,
When this Answer arrived from the Jolly Old Grecian
“Voice, Fiddle, and Flute,
No longer be mute,
I’ll lend you my Name and inspire you to boot
And, besides I’ll instruct you, like me, to intwine
The Myrtle of Venus with Bacchus’s Vine.”

Francis Scott Key, the Perpetrator of Our National Anthem

The only question I have is: Was Francis Scott Key drunk when he wrote the gosh-awful lyrics of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and possibly stoned as well for using the tune of “To Anacreon in Heaven”?

Compare the barroom ballad that is our national anthem with the Hungarian “Himnusz,” composed by Ferenc Kölcsey:

So pardon me if I continue to take to my knees.

Chicken Buses

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“Chicken Bus” with Conductor Hanging Out the Door

Old American school buses have a second life in Guatemala. They are imported, gussied up according to local taste, and converted into what are lovingly called chicken buses, because presumably the local Maya could transport pigs and chickens as well as themselves. They come with a driver and a conductor, who hangs out the front door as in the photo above, calling out the destination. Anyone could stop one of these second class buses by simply hailing it and climbing aboard. The conductor collects the fare and makes change, sometimes making the passenger wait until more fares are collected.

I did not take any chicken buses in Guatemala because of the potential for hold-ups and assorted violence. The guidebooks say to take tourist shuttles instead, even though they cost considerably more. Also, I do believe the language used by the driver and conductor is usually the local dialect of Mayan.

A Chicken Bus to Magdalena and Santa Lucia

There tend to be two, sometimes three, public transit options in the intercity market: chicken buses, tourist shuttles, and the (rare) first class bus that goes from point to point without picking up or discharging passengers on the way. (In a later post, I will tell you about my adventures careening through the jungle in a somewhat ratty first class bus.) The first class buses are usually for Ladinos; the chicken buses, for the locals; and tourist shuttles for Gringos.

Chicken Buses Lined up at Antigua’s Bus Terminal

I noticed that the numbers on the front or rear windows of buses (and some cars) merely repeat the license plate in larger letters (for the convenience of witnesses and the police?),

All the buses shown on this page were taken in Antigua near the second class bus terminal. The buses in Eastern Guatemala are different. But more about that later.