Me llamo Pam Wooall

Well, I arrived in Guatemala City to a sign outside the airport waiting for me. So it read, ¨Pam Wooall,¨close enough for this gringo. I got on. And so began my introduction to the joys of diesel fumes, the importance of a 13-year old Spanish education, and the pros and cons of ignoring what I thought to be the rules of the road.

Pass on the wrong side of the road just before a blind curve? Sure! When you discover that this maneuver just granted you a one way ticket to a head on collision, just force the adjacent car into the breakdown lane! Follow these simple suggestions, and you too will get the joys of driving in Guatemala in the comfort of your own language, with all the pleasures of outrageous insurance premiums.

That said, Sasha has arranged an outstanding itinerary for us during my relatively short week here in the Land of the Altitudinally Challenged. Within 24 hours of arriving to her still infirm self in Panajachel (Spanish for Venice Beach Boardwalk), we were checking into our room perched cliffside on Lake Atitlan. After chastising her for her poor choice of dual-volcano views, accessible only by (chicken) boat, we managed to find time in our busy afternoon to relax. The next day, after leaving the requisite amount of clothing absentmindedly behind at the hotel (I had already donated my ATM card to the fine people of Panajachel the day before), we boarded a 'chicken bus' for Quetzaltenango, where she is studying Spanish (adonde Sasha esta estudiando espanol). We even managed to rent a cardboard box of live chickens for the trip to solidify the nickname. I tell you, Sasha doesn't miss a trick...

Let me digress for a moment on the fact that while this blog (remember - boring, laughable, obnoxious griping) does not center on the great liberal nation of East Bushistan, this country I'm in sure could go for some freedomizing. But, as always, I digress...

Today we went to an indigenous villiage high in the mountains, which sustained considerable damage during last year's Hurricane Stan. You know, that hurricane we waited for with bated breath, hoping that it did not hit the Gulf Coast? Well, it hit Guatemala instead. Remember all those CNN reports on the devastation it caused? No, of course not. Anderson Cooper had problems with his Visa (he is on the Too-White-to-Travel Watch List).

Anyways, the Mayan village of Xeabaj (shay-a-bah) was buried under numerous landslides, with the people escaping to the schoolhouse only hours before. USAID is on the scene, along with what appears to be Habitat for Humanity (seemingly populated solely by folks south of the Maxon-Dixon line -- Jimmy Carter's got some Yankee-recruitin' to do...). We had the distinct privilege of planting trees on what I can only acertain to be land that was too steep even for the Mayans to undertake such a dangerous task. Fortunately, we did not lose anyone to the death-defying brambles. As previous emails from Sasha will attest, it is located on simply breathtaking land, which I plan to develop 100 - 120 luxury condos once I get out of business school. The return on indigenous investment is just too good to pass up.

What? I'm an inconsiderate, gringo bastard, you say? Perhaps, but a 3-bedroom penthouse that I could sell you at a discounted 'friend-price' might change your mind... In any case, back to multi-colored, Mayan dispair. The kids in this village are just too cute, and the women incredibly skeptical that we are going to steal them for their organs. I feces you not. It just goes to show, one widely-populated email chain can just ruin it for the rest of us. Overall, I'm really glad Sasha took me there. We went with her school, which for all I can tell, is filled with people who are one degree of separation from all of you. They either teach in Berkeley High, live in JP, or are within spitting distance of our new place in Brooklyn. It's frickin' eerie... To sum up, you haven't lived until you've seen an indigenous person on a cell phone.

If this is becoming too long to read, chalk it up to the one book you read this summer. You know me, I freedom ramble.

Anyways, next on the list is Antigua, the land of photographed doors (I don't know why, but it seems as though that's all anyone does there), followed by the mystical, fantastically un-buried Mayan city of Tikal (where they all used to go on holiday prior to the Great Mayan Peekaboo).

I intend to sacrifice a goat for the Sox. Old meets new, while simultaneously pushing the boundaries of common decency. What could be more 21st century? Then back to taking pictures of doors, before I board my last rump-numbing, Boston drivers'-got-nothin-on-these-guys van ride back to Guatemala airport.

I'll keep an eye out for the 'Rim Toodle' sign. How else will I know it's for me...?