Day 635: Guatemala Essence

So that was it for internet in Guatemala. I managed to check my emails, painfully slowly, one or two more times, but nothing else. It was wonderful. I realised how much of my time I spend cocking about on a computer when it's really not needed, how much I'd love to have a field or two to plough and things to dig and good, solid physical work to do every day. Not that I had that there, but something about the natural groundedness of the place, and that lack of it being London, reminded me. When I lived at the Esalen Institute I worked on the farm. I was lean and physically happy. I had a core to wheelahoe for. I loved that however I felt, however tired, happy, grumpy, confused, the first thing to be done in the morning was get outside and harvest vegetables for the kitchen to prepare; to wash them of their main mud and carry them inside, with slow-moving, frosted fingers; to stand in the breakfast queue with a soft-boiled egg clutched in each hand - not because I'm a fan of eggs as such, but because it thawed my fingers just enough to do the rest of breakfast before heading back out to the sun and the burnt-off mist and the fields all open for a dig.

Guatemala was a gift. Thank you, Annie Richey. Thank you, Sonia Lemus. Thank you, Tom Gensemer. Thank you, sleek yet galumphing Frieda, frantic wagger Diego with his comedy stump tail and weirdy, stinky, beloved ladydog Roja. In so many different ways, you all gave me such gifts. There's too much to say for a blog. I loved not having a computer or any internet, so I didn't blog. Next time I go, I'll take something to write on with my fingers. This time, it wasn't the deal. 

There were endless mountains and rainforests and lakes and skies, volcanoes, lilies, boats and little bitey insects. There were huts and reeds and lanchas and laughing. There were many, many dogs and many smiling people. There was truly enticing traditional dress, with fabrics I just wanted to look at and look at. There were hard situations and happy ones. There were successes and misses. There were people who delighted me - more of those than any other kind. 

I loved, on my last morning, talking with a Chilean man, a woman from Hong Kong, a young French woman, an American the same and a bloke from Guiseley (about ten miles from where I was born) who used to be in finance in the City and was very nice indeed.

I had thought I didn't really want to travel, or spend time with travellers in hostels, but these people really enriched me. Penny (Hong Kong) gave almost tearful wonder into every sentence about the marvels she had witnessed. She felt things so deeply. She'd been refused a visa to El Salvador and she'd almost taken it personally, but she seemed to take the beauty of every tree and temple personally too, like it was all designed to move her. I liked her very much. 


Chilean man was a journalist who'd lived in Moscow and had been part of the Putin machine. He was looking for a visa to go back to Mexico. American woman worked for a charity and was fabulous, though exhausted by the constant batting off of the male gaze/touch/word in the town she lived in. She was tired of being ignored and not listened to because she was a woman, and tired of whistles and gropes and robberies in the street. She was deciding where to go next. That excited me. 

Guiseley Boy had been travelling for two years and was set to return in March (unless, unless). The French woman was delightful, sparkly, dark-eyed and on the tips of her toes for a tease with every breath - just the kind of tease to make people laugh and feel loved. She achieved it time and time again. And then we were joined by a Brazilan man and a Norwegian one. I loved that. The world felt bigger and freer and more open than I've been walking in it. London suddenly seemed terribly small. Still does.