I feel as if we’re getting somewhere.  We’re in Guatemala now, as of 10:30 this morning.  In the past few days we’ve traveled from beach to rainforest to city, through Mayan villages and into the seemingly impenetrable mountains of Guatemala.  I’m beginning to realize and understand how la tierra affects the wealth of nations.  It must be such a challenge for the Guatemalan government to communicate with the mountain villages, let alone supply electricity and aid. 

Right after writing the last post, Flaco and I checked out of the hotel in Papantla, Mexico, and walked  outside to find out why Revolucion announcements were being shouted over a loudspeaker.  Children were playing drums and crowds were milling around, women in high heels and men in freshly polished boots.  Cutting through the crowd, a parade turned a corner into the main square.  Little girls were dressed in traditional Mexican dresses, with real or faux braids hanging over their ears.  Some had straps of fake bullets draped over their shoulders.  The little boys (some as young as three) carried painted-wood rifles, straps of cardboard bullets, and facepaint moustaches.  Some kids had cheerleader pom-poms, some had drums, some had rings of metallic paper.  Flaco asked one of the women standing near us what the occasion was.  She didn’t know.  A man explained that Mexican independence day is November 20th and today they were beginning the celebrations, with a parade of kids from all the various kindergartens.  Most of the kids were excited, marching along in the heat like tiny soldiers, but many were overwhelmed and some were crying for their mothers.  But, afterward, while I waited for Flaco to get his shoes shined by one of the many men with shoeshine carts, I saw all the kids walking proudly hand-in-hand with their parents and grandparents, drinking juice or eating cotton candy, smiling with a vague but powerful feeling of being part of a tradition.  It is the 98th anniversary of the revolution.

The drive that day, on Friday, was difficult.  Flaco drove the whole day, but we were only moving for 4 hours and covered about 180 miles from Papantla to Alverado.  We had a late start since our car was parked in by the parade, so the day started at 11 am instead of 7 or 8.  The road south led along the beach and was nicely paved and straight, but a double-tractor trailer that had tried to pass on the 2-lane highway fell partly off the road and blocked it entirely.  We were held up for 3 hours in the heat, but passed the time talking to the locals and cheering on the volunteers and tow truckers trying to clear the mess.  Back on the road, we navigated through the wealthy port city of Veracruz, and, before going entirely stir-crazy,  decided to stop after dark in dingy Alverado.

Yesterday we drove over 10 hours, from Alverado on the Gulf coast to Comitan de Dominguez, an hour north of the Guatemalan border.  Comitan had just what we needed: a cheap hotel, a restaurant with decent wine, and a statue- and family-filled park perfect for people watching.

I’ve been slightly on edge these past few days.  I’m dealing with the unknown.  Making mistakes with my Spanish and risking offending people or confusing them or looking stupid.  It takes me a little while to get used to it and relax into it.  People are people, I have to remember.  Traveling like this at first reminds me of the differences between people all over the world, but gradually I learn to focus on the similarities.  That is the only way to travel, I think.  That is the reason to travel.  People are only animals, after all.   We can sense fear and anxiety and awkwardness.  The times I’ve felt the most involved in other cultures, the times I’ve been able to feel at home in the most foreign of circumstances, I’ve acted like I belong (I belong here, I tell myself.  I may stand out, but we’re all still family.  My brothers and sisters, here with me).  Like in Malawi when the men bothered me to buy their goods and toys until I said “No, Brother.”  And then I wasn’t a polite foreigner, I was part of the Family.

So this is what I have to tell myself: Relax.  We are all familiar with each other through our humanness.  And then differences fade into the background, differences become laughable superficialities. 

And while traveling with Flaco, I am always reminding myself to Let It Be (or, better yet, It Is What It Is).  I am. He is. We are.  That is all.  That is all I can ever be sure of.  We exist, and for this moment in time we exist together.  Our paths are running alongside each other.  Just enjoy, I tell myself.  Don’t plan, don’t expect.  It’s just like the connection between me and the old Mexican women when we smile at each other for a moment, connect for a moment.  “I am open to you,” says the smile.  We must all try to be open to each other, to relax into it all.  This exact thing, this shaping of a relationship, this connection between two people or many people, is going on all over the world.  We are all not so different.

I haven’t been able to post photos, but I will in Costa Rica, if not sooner.  They are worth waiting for, I hope.