I arrived in Quetzaltenango, or Xela (pronounced shey-lah), in a gear-crunching, cog-grinding bus travelling on the ´new road´(read: not yet built in most parts) in a torrential downpour, the heavy grey skies pounding the tarmac and steaming up the windows. So my first impression of the place, as I scuttled along deserted ´Avenidas´ late on Sunday afternoon with rainwater pouring into my sandles and soaking my backpack, was not wonderful. I furrowed my brow against the elements in that way us Brits are expert at, and curled up in bed with a cup of tea to try and warm up as soon as I reached a hostel. I lay there dozing, thinking once again ´What on earth am I doing here, why am I not on a hot tropical beach somewhere soaking up the rays?´ That question was to be answered the following day. It was still drizzling, that misty rain that dampens you hair and your soul, everything, even the magenta, turquoise and ochre houses appearing dull and grey. But my mood lifted as I joined other volunteers on the stone steps to catch pur ride up to Primeros Pasos, in the foothills of the surrounding verdant mountains. An old yellow school bus bumped and bounced its way up the dirt tracks, through what appeared to be the city´s dumpsite,
up to a simple breezeblock building nestling in a small village. It certainly does not look much from the outside, but within seconds of stepping inside those walls a sense of warmth, and welcome, and people really making a difference up in these lonely villages suffused me. There was such an energy about the place, even though there were not many patients as the schools are closed for holidays. More about Primeros Pasos in the next post. Xela itself is similar to Antigua in design and architecture, but with much more
grit and reality. Here, the people walking the cobbled streets are people heading to work, or visiting friends, not tourists, and the sparse gringos are here for the long-haul, studying Spanish ($3 per hour of one-to-one tuition...) or volunteering at one of the many trekking, medical or environmental charities around this area in the Northern Highlands. Xela is noisy, busy and polluted yet peaceful, frantic yet calm, a place where new sights and sounds batter your senses like the rain yet move you to feel settled almost instantly.
I am staying in Casa Argentina, a sprawling building of private rooms with a shared courtyard and kitchen area. My room - $2 per night - has not only a double but a single bed, a crackling old TV, and a balcony view across the rusty tin rooftops of Xela. The mornings are provincial and subdued, the town waking slowly as the sun warms these rooftops, becoming animated as vendors sell their wares in the street and shopkeepers make their money. It feels suspended between a slightly damp grey industrial town in Northern England and a 19th Century imperial
court. The contrast between familiar and extraordinary is rife here, surprising you at every turn. I watched children playing barefoot in the muddy straight right outside a neoclassical building that houses the main bank, a guard armed with a shotgun preventing them breach the entrance. All over town, young girls dressed in traditional woven skirts sit in internet cafes playing online games and movies.
There are so many signs of progression, but an air of something underground holding it back. Guatemala was recently voted the worst democracy in Latin America (some stiff competition there). When I find out what that something preventing the de-marginalisation of Mayans and reduction of poverty is, I will let you know. Something warns me it may be to do with power, and violence, and lawlessness - I read today that 70% of the arable land here is owned by 3% of the population - leaving more than 50% below the poverty line.
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