First World Guilt

When I was about 14, I had my braces taken off and for the full next week I could not stop passing my tongue over my newly unadorned teeth. Compared to the metallic, pokey surface of my braces, my liberated teeth felt overly smooth and slimy, as if I had a mouth of pure gums rather than modified bone. It may seem like a strange analogy, but this is exactly how visiting Guatemala City felt to me. Leaving the rough, sometimes prickly campo for the shiny and new capital city felt as if I had shed my braces in favor of a fresh, white smile. As we drove through the clean, un-littered streets lined with multi-level buildings, I stared at this brave new world with the same fascination and confusion as 14 year old Alexis compulsively licked her own teeth.   

                                      

Over this past weekend, a group of us volunteers were afforded the opportunity to visit the Forbidden City. (The capital is a Peace Corps red zone for various security reasons.) Armed with private transportation and two certified chaperones, we were graciously allowed to explore designated spots of the city like the true tourists we are. We visited the Popol Vuh and Ixchel museums, the Central Park, and an incredibly bourgie area of town called Cayala. In between destinations we were instructed to roll up the windows and lock the doors - in case a band of criminals decided to embark on a high-speed, cross-vehicle robbery of 10 broke Peace Corps volunteers Fast and Furious style. Based on Peace Corps rhetoric and the strict rules prohibiting us from entering the city, most of us were expecting Gotham. Instead we got a clean, bustling city with the occasional graffiti. But we weren’t brought to the areas that most locals would consider the real Guatemala City, we were brought to Cayala.

  

Walking through the polished streets of Cayala, I felt as if we had been dropped straight into The Truman Show and was physically affected by a feeling most travellers and international workers know well- the inherent pang of first world guilt.  Cayala would outshine the nicest areas of many American cities I’ve visited and the surrounding empty lots give it the creepy feeling of a constructed make-believe world. Looking around at the designer stores and classy restaurants nearly everything stood out in stark contrast from my life back in Itzapa. The cows and horses being led through the streets of Itzapa were replaced by giggly cherubs on bikes, their parents nowhere to be seen because there was nothing to be worried about in this land of perfection. The feces and trash that cake the streets of Itzapa were replaced by perfectly manicured cobblestone. And the hardworking, leathered men and women in Mayan traje were now posh families straight from an LL Bean catalogue. 

     

As I wandered around in complete bewilderment I couldn’t help but wonder what my host mom would make of this place. Would she look at the over-priced restaurants, artisan furniture stores, and boutique olive oil shops with admiration? Or would she spit on the spotless streets as if they personally affronted her and her poverty? Just being in Cayala made me feel guilty as if I was somehow betraying her and the women I work with. I wondered if they’d think less of me for spending what amounts to their monthly salary on two sushi rolls and a Sapporo. First world guilt, or at least my particular brand of it, I think is better characterized as embarrassment. I feel embarrassed by my choices – a 150Q sushi lunch over a 20Q comedor meal- and my ability to make those choices so readily. 

First world guilt, like any guilt derived from privilege, is a curious thing. It can make you stick your head in the sand and completely deny that you benefit from any distorted advantages: “I’ve worked hard for what I have!” (Yes, we know, but that doesn’t negate your privilege.) It can also lead you to do crazy things like become a vegan or give up your life at home for two years in the Guatemalan campo.  So is guilt a pointless, self-destructive emotion or is it an evolutionary psychological mechanism that drives us forward? Either way, I think that staying in touch with our guilt and understanding its roots is an important way to ensure that our actions are motivated by the desire for real progress and aren’t just a way to relieve our sense of embarrassment or shame. Guilt without action is pointless, but action doesn’t necessarily dissipate our guilt leaving us forever stranded on an infinite moving walkway of good deeds and empathy overload.  It’s a fate I feel personally doomed to and even trapped by, but am secretly grateful for the sense of purpose it’s given me.

Tis the Season

Slip back into the nostalgic past of middle school fairs, or if you’re from NOLA like me, crawfish boils. Food stands, death-defying rides (looking at you, Zipper), arts and crafts booths, and throngs of joyful families basking in the momentary bliss of funnel cake and raffle tickets. Now replace the foods you know with pupusas, fried chicken and tortillas, and all manner of meats being grilled on the plancha. Take the sweet, childish rides you once knew and exchange them for the same ones, just twenty years older, covered in rust, and plastered with caricatures of nearly naked, extremely bodacious women. And finally, multiply the crowds you’re used to by a factor of 5 and imagine inhaling an atmosphere composed entirely of B.O. and farts as you squeeze through a vast sea of seemingly unmoving people. Now you’re at a Guatemalan feria!

                                                    

Currently, Guatemala is in feria season – a wonderful time where small towns and big cities get to leave behind their troubles and celebrate their home pride with gusto. Most ferias in Guate are a multi-day event that includes a parade, a concert, and of course the aforementioned fair scene. Intense crowds, the cries of vendors auctioning off their products, and the smells of fried foods are just some of the things you can expect to encounter at every Guatemalan feria. And let us not forget the Ferris Wheels of death. As rusted and rickety as they are, I can only imagine that they were retired from use in the States and sent to Guatemala for another few years of perilous diversion. It is impossible to describe fully the overwhelming blend of smells, sounds, and emotions one can experience in just an hour of feria.

   

Guatemalans celebrate the various patron saints of their hometowns by hosting these enormous parties around the days the saints first appeared to the Spanish colonists telling them to settle in the spots that hundreds of years later would become the towns I know and love today. Town members go all out to celebrate these metaphysical miracle makers. Town streets can be seen adorned with colorful decorations, churches hold elaborate mass ceremonies, families host large feasts, and nearly all governmental offices and services are temporarily shut down. Ferias are extremely important cultural and religious festivities in the lives of Guatemalans. They are dreamed about, planned for, and the focus of sentimental storytelling throughout the year. With their focus on history, religion, giving thanks, and enjoying the latest trends in music and pop culture, feria represents the past, present, and future all in one. The nuances that exist in each feria – the foods served, the products sold, and the colors used to embellish the streets – represent the identity and individuality of the place. All in all, feria is a time for drinking, eating, dancing, playing, and of course praying.

   

During my first year in Guatemala, I’ve had the pleasure of attending three ferias thus far: Xela (aka Quetzaltenango), Totonicapán, and San Miguel Dueñas. Within my first hour at Xela feria, I was robbed blind of nearly all of my valuables, including my phone, wallet, keys, and Twix bar. I want to be clear: it was awful. I felt dumb and helpless, and very lost and scared in a foreign city with no money and no means of communication. But it was also an incredible reminder of how fortunate I am to be surrounded by people that go above and beyond to look after me. I am forever indebted to my mom for wiring me money and canceling my cards, to my friends for buying all my food and drank, and to Don Rafael who offered to drive me three hours home in the pouring rain. You all remind me how truly beautiful the human experience can be.

                                                        

Other than that blip, my time at the three ferias was amazing! In Xela, I almost vomited on a crowd of unsuspecting Guatemalans as I raced towards death on a Ferris Wheel that likely reached speeds capable of breaking the sound barrier. In Totonicapán, I accidentally marched in the parade, lost and confused as I tried to find my way to the bus terminal. Let’s just say A LOT of people waved at us and they were probably laughing with us not at us. And I got to bring my indigenous host mom to Dueñas to celebrate feria there with my ladino host family. My time at feria has been a small, but extremely powerful look into the gorgeous complexities of Guatemalan life. Eating and blundering my way through the celebrations provided me a firsthand account of the true joy Guatemalans take in celebrating their history and religion. Talking to excited feria-goers opened up a world of fellowship, where no matter your origins we are all Guatemalans.