Found in Translation

The local park guards are the sincerest guys I know here. After awhile I came to realize that we have a mutual appreciation, and a similar viewpoint about the work we're all doing. People like them have kept me going when things seem pointless.

A few months ago I got a formal request from them, typed, printed, and addressed in an envelope, which was hand delivered to me. These are not guys who are exactly computer saavy or into writing things down, so it was pretty touching that they took me so seriously, even if it was a request for money (basically).

I'll share it just to give you a taste of the culture here, and the formality used in written communications:

[my name here]
Peace Corps Volunteer
Municipality of [my site here]
Present

By means of the present receive the warmest greetings on the part of the park guards of [my site here], at the same time we wish to desire you every type of success in your daily labor.

WE THE BELOW SIGNED all majority of age, Guatemalans, holding the title of Municipal Park Guards of the municipality of [my site here] of the department of [my department here], BEFORE YOU RESPECTFULLY direct ourselves in order to expound the following: FIRST: That it is of your knowledge that our work is practiced in the communal forest of the municipality in order to maintain and watch over the forests of our municipality, for which it is necessary to carry mountain backpacks in order to carry medicines for first aid and others. SECOND: For the reasons written above, and with all the respect that you deserve as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the municipality of [my site, department], at the same time we solicit to your good person and willingness that you would help us by donating three mountain backpacks.

Without anything else to add for you, we thank your fine attention and understanding.

Attentively,

[names and signatures of 3 park guards]

...to me it sounds pretty funny translated nearly literally into English! I've realized that my spoken Spanish is also quite a bit more formal than I speak in English, basically it´s natural to be a sponge and repeat whatever style of language you hear.

We could speculate on why written language, and even public spoken discourse, are so formal here ... vestiges of Spanish colonialism? acquisition of Spanish as a second language used mostly to speak with strangers and write formal documents? influence on Spanish from the local Mayan language? It's so interesting to reflect on the way that culture influences language -- and hey, vice versa, right?!

(And if you're wondering, I found a local outfitter: one backpack will cost $65, approximately 1/4 of their monthly salaries. I´m trying to convince them to solicit the bags from the new mayor, because I think it´s important people rely on their local systems when possible - and our town hall is in pretty good shape. But if they decide not to, it´s going to be hard to say no to such an earnest request!)

Work is sacred

On "Counterpart Day", the last day of training, our counterparts came to take us to our sites.

There was a section of the agenda where we were to discuss with them our different cultural perspectives on universal concepts, such as family, work, gender, love. The municipal council member accompanying my counterpart spoke first: "Work is sacred," he said. "Everyone has the right to work."

Just a week ago, all the municipal employees met with the new mayor. Unlike most new mayors, he has no plan to fire anyone in order to make space for family members. The key part of his speech was that he expected quality work from us, but if we did not work hard, our jobs would be at risk. "Your work is sacred," he said. "Protect it."

Today I went to call on a friend's mother so I could borrow a key. I felt rude because I was rushed and didn't have time to chat. "I understand," she said. "It's your work. My daughter, too. That's a good thing. Work is sacred."

It seems like I've heard that a lot lately, and it's got me thinking hard to make sense of it. I suppose work would be considered sacred in a culture where the amount of work you do, the area of land you cultivate, the products you sell at market, directly relate to the amount of food on the table at night.

Work means a healthy family. It means the ability to live easier. It's survival. It's sacred because it's not necessarily something that everyone has, regardless of their merit. A plague or drought or crippling illness can affect anyone's work indiscriminately. Work, in a sense, is God-given.

I've always thought of work from the perspective of the industrial-age "Protestant work ethic," though. People who are smarter and work harder get better jobs. Some jobs are better than others. (Quick test here: Janitor or lawyer? Which does mainstream US and even Guatemalan culture suppose is better?) Work is not sacred, because it is something man controls. It is earned by man, not God-given.

But more and more, I think I can see the Mayan point of view. The recent economic crises have served as a reminder that we live in a complicated economic system, one that we hardly control. The crises have shown lots of people that there is no shame in working simply to put food on the table.

Point being: Work is not something everyone has. We shouldn't take our work for granted, or complain about it, whatever it is. We have to protect it - do it as well and with as much pride as we can, while knowing it can be taken just as it was given.

If we don't revere our work, we've lost sight of its basic meaning.

One day I was chatting with some friends over lunch. We were talking about US culture, how we are often so rushed working that we eat lunch standing or at our desks. One friend commented, "You know, that's so funny. It's impossible to get people from the communities [small villages in my municipality] to even come to an event during lunchtime."

Another agreed. "It's because they haven't lost perspective," he said. "We work to eat, not the other way around."

Your work is sacred. Protect it.

Taking a Mayan Sweat Bath

One of the things I really enjoy about my Peace Corps life is bathing in the Mayan sauna/sweatlodge. The temascal or chuj (in Mam) was historically a small round hut made of adobe and mud, built to hold in heat from the fire which heated the water for bathing. It played a very important role in cleansing, healing, and general well-being. It still does.

Despite all of the changes that have occurred to my town's culture since pre-colonial times - due to colonization, civil war, globalization, mass male exodus to the US and a town economy based on remittances - the chuj remains omnipresent. We are but half an hour outside of a major city. The influence of modernity is palpable - yet almost everyone in my town still baths in chuj one or two times a week.

Why? I will let you all, readers, decide that for yourselves. The modern iteration of the chuj is a little cement-block building, painted black on the inside, with a low bench, a hearth for heating water, hot rocks to create steam (like in Scandinavian saunas) and sometimes a cold-water spigot. It's tiny; to get inside, you have to stoop over, and precariously balance your weight on the buckets of cold water or a handle or whatever might support you.

The hot air sucks you in for a second and you can't remember what you're supposed to be doing. The heat and steam are intoxicating, the low candlelight dances, you've found another world of being. Washing, okay, right. You sit down, take off your bathrobe - place it off to the side in a dry place. Gingerly scoop some scalding hot water into the mixing pot, then from the cold water bucket, until the water is bearable. The heat will be getting to you at this point, so pour the water all over yourself - careful not to take off your headwrap - you'll get sick if you wet your hair at night.

Also, my friends, forget your swimsuits. Chuj is taken naked, or almost entirely naked. At this point you'll take a loofah and dip in some jabon negro - caustic black soap. Scrub yourself up good. Ask your host mom to get your back. Rinse. Repeat. Not hot enough? Throw a little water on the rocks - but not too much. Many a gringa has gone running for less.

If your family still keeps some of the medicinal traditions, you may take a swath of elder leaves, heat them over the rocks, and gently hit yourself with the swath repeatedly. Elder is known for its healing properties.

After a time you'll note that you're sweating and that a layer of grime - what they call "grasa" - seems to be lifting itself from your skin - and your mind. Go after the skin with your fingernails, or if you're feeling adventurous, a chunk of pumice. After you bath regularly in chuj you'll noticing this layer disminuing each week.

This is no bucket bath, friends. Forget that purgatory of frigid air and luke-warm water rushed past like any other mundane ritual. This is purification on the highest level.

When the grasa's gone, it's time to get out. And just in time- the heat can make you dizzy, even nauseous - signs you've stayed in too long. Wrap yourself up good and squeeze to get out into the chill air. It'll hit you and you might wobble a little bit, but at least there's no cold water or snowbank to jump into here, like the Finns would advocate. Are you kidding? You'll have the flu for a year!

Lie down on your bed under a blanket or two, before getting up to dry off and put on pajamas. You'll feel the cleanest, and most relaxed, you have in your life. And at last you'll have an idea why your neighbors rarely rely on those hot-water showers they installed.