A change of scenery

A sudden noise makes me look up from my computer: it is a gust of wind trying to get my attention, to lure me over to the window. Curious if this is really what it sounds like I get up and peer out into the night to try and catch a glimpse of the big spruce trees. The moon, a golden banana in an obsidian bowl, is low in the western horizon, almost ready to slip behind the trees I cannot distinguish from the sky in the darkness. I stand and watch, transfixed: this is not the silver moon travelling high above for hours between rising and setting, but a heavenly body glowing warmly, disappearing slowly from view. A few more minutes, and all I see is the slightly curved tip of its horn, now resembling the quietly burning flame of a candle, a moment later extinguished for yet another night. The wind is blowing steadily, its sustained rumble matched by the rumble of the furnace. The bitter cold that had gripped us for a few days last week has relented, the wind no longer a menacing presence – at least for now.

It is good to be home again after three days at Farm Tech, Western Canada’s most prominent crop production and farm management conference taking place at the newly renovated Northlands conference centre in Edmonton, attended by about 1600 people. Last year I accompanied Johann, who had been there several times before, for the first time, and enjoyed it very much. This year both of our sons, Magnus and Carl, were there as well, which made it even more special.

Keynote speakers address the whole crowd on several occasions, and during the day one can choose between concurrent breakout sessions that make it possible to get informed on a variety of agriculture-related topics. There are sessions on marketing and agriculture policy, on modern production techniques and plant diseases, on germination testing and weather outlook. High-profile speakers come from all over Canada and the United States, and as far away as Ukraine and the UK. In other years Johann has listened to presenters from other parts of Europe, South America and even Australia, Asia and Africa.

But learning doesn’t only take place during the structured parts of the program, of course. With so many people sharing the same interests and passion, facing the same problems and challenges, the exchanges that happen during the informal parts of the conference are just as valuable. Meal times – amazingly organized and very efficiently conducted for such a huge crowd of people – provide ample opportunities for conversation over wonderful food, and evenings find participants gathered in ‘hospitality suites’ and industry sponsored events. The first night we were fortunate enough to be part of a group gathered in the slowly rotating restaurant on the top floor of the Chateau Lacombe downtown. We had an amazing view of the city, passing the most prominent downtown buildings, watching traffic snaking up and down the hill to the North Saskatchewan River 24 stories below, trying to find landmarks we recognized. We were happy to reconnect with old acquaintances we hadn’t seen in a while, and spent time with others we hadn’t met before.

Since there are hardly any accommodations close to the conference centre we were a bit sceptical what effect this would have – up to last year the conference had taken place at a hotel on the west side, which was no longer big enough to host the event. The shuttle service between the downtown hotels and the conference centre on the east side was very well organized, however, and it couldn’t have run more smoothly.

Last night, watching the magically lit city slide by on my way back to the hotel, I decided to skip the first session today to take a walk around downtown: I rarely get there except for concerts at the Francis Winspear Hall of Music, always at night, and with no time to spare for looking at buildings old and new in the heart of Edmonton. This was a perfect opportunity to explore the Arts District a block or two north of our hotel, with the Art Gallery, the Citadel Theatre, City Hall and, in front of it, Sir Winston Churchill Square. There, I had been told, ice sculptures were on display at the moment, and I wanted to look at them, too, but had to find out that this was only possible on the weekend – a reason to come back, maybe.

I also passed some red-brick buildings from Edmonton’s early days, the first decade of the 20^th century, nicely restored already or in the midst of renovations, witness to a time when it was more important to erect buildings necessary to service a growing economy – banks, newspaper, trading houses – than provide venues for entertainment and culture.

Watching the sun come up over the river, partly hidden by a bank of clouds, the crisp morning air painting my cheeks red, hands buried in the pockets of my coat, I felt what General Hillier, today's wonderful keynote speaker, pointed out this afternoon: how fortunate I am to live here, in a country that is safe and prosperous, not plagued by war and rarely subject to disastrous natural catastrophes – even though it can be a bit cold at times.

Much as I enjoyed this disruption of winter routine, I am happy to be home again. The wind has not yet gone to bed, and Orion, too, is still on his nightly march across the sky. I, however, be it in the city or out here under the immense sky, will take to heart the wise words of a Chinese proverb:

         The secret is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, 

                           but to walk on the earth”.

Deep freeze

It is starting to get light when I wake up from an extra hour of sleep: Doris, the school bus driver, phoned last night to let us know that the bus wouldn’t be running today due to the extreme wind chill expected in the morning. This is unusual; normally the decision of cancelling busses is made very early in the morning. Even at 8:30 PM, however, there was little doubt that the forecast would be correct.

From the bed I see the smoke from the chimney drift lazily by the window and move toward the trees. This means the north-west wind, though not strong, is at work pushing it down from the roof, giving it direction. It doesn’t need much to create a wind chill of -44 when the temperature is at -35.

The thermostat had been turned all the way down during the night, but the furnace has now been running for almost two hours without shutting off once. I woke up thirsty at seven, and my skin feels like parchment: the humidity in the house is down to 28%. Since we don’t have a humidifier we have started to have a pot of water on a low setting on the gas stove all day, which will bring it up to 35% within a few hours. I hang laundry in the basement instead of using a dryer – another helpful measure - and I’ve been cooking up a storm lately.

After a few days of this treatment the windows now show a narrow rim of frost along the bottom edge: the humidifying process must be working somewhat, at least. Before we, one by one, replaced the old windows in the house I wouldn’t be able to open a single one of them all winter, and the only one offering a free view of the outside world was the big picture window in the living room. The others were beautifully decorated with ice flowers and strings of ice pearls, an underwater world with undulating sea weeds glistening in the sun. On days like today I don’t regret this exchange of beauty for comfort.

The trucker who was going to take five B-train loads of oats to Edmonton for us today phoned at seven, too:  none of his trucks is in any condition to drive in this kind of weather; they all have problems. No standing outside for any length of time for Johann then either, and while it would have been nice to have the oats loaded it certainly is a lot easier when it’s not one of the coldest days of the year.

Winter, then, has arrived at last, and I can only hope that it won’t be trying to make up for all the mild weeks we have had at its start. Once again the old German saying proves to be true:

“Wenn die Tage langen, kommt der Winter gegangen.“ - 

"When the days get longer winter comes marching in“.

Waiting for a warmer day

Chichicastenango

Chichicastenango – the name drops off the tongue like marbles spilled on a tile floor. It has in it the excitement and rhythm of Latin dance music, although, strangely, it means ‘City of Nettles’, a name which it was given by the Spanish Conquistadores. This town of about 66,000 is our destination on Thursday, December 1^st, when we get in the van at the Bigfoot Travel Agency in San Pedro at 8:30 AM, together with about ten other travellers. It will take us about an hour and a half to get there, and once again we will tackle the road we descended a few days earlier. It seems less hair-raising this time. Is it due to the fact that we are now on our way up instead of down, or have we got used to the idea of steep slopes, tight curves and big holes in the road so quickly?

Once we are at the top of the hill in Santa Clara La Laguna we soon gain access to the highway. The country is relatively open, with fields of cabbage and beans, corn and squash, and roadside stands offering vegetables and fruit are frequent. Suddenly I think I can’t trust my eyes: apples! We haven’t seen apples growing anywhere since we came to Central America; melons and pineapple, papaya and mango are the fruits of these lands. Apples belong to the moderate climes of much more northerly or southerly countries. Yet there is no denying it: the red, golden and blush fruits arranged carefully in neat piles on rough tables are indeed apples. How can this be, at almost 2500 m elevation? This altitude, I guess, is exactly what does make it possible: the average temperature and the humidity are lower this high up. Soon I see the apple orchards, too, the trees, unlike most others we see, leafless – harvest is over, and the trees are enjoying their winter rest, just like they are at home.

Chichi, as it is called here, is a beautiful old town with cobbled streets, and according to our travel guide it is interesting because pre-Christian rites are still practiced here, parallel to the Catholic faith. The bus driver drops us off at the entrance to the market, not far from the church on whose steps the pot seller in the postcard does her trading, Iglesia del Santo Tomas, built around 1540. Unfortunately we don’t have time to explore Chichi’s non-commercial features further: Thursdays and Sundays are market days, and that’s what we have come for today. We are supposed to meet the bus at this corner again four hours later – that sounds like a long time ...

At first glance it all seems a bit overwhelming, and I take a deep breath mentally before I immerse myself in this melee. A sea of colour stretches out in front of us, a moving, throbbing mass of people almost filling the space between stalls on both sides of the streets, tourists, looking as dazed as I feel, locals in traditional dress, hawkers and buyers – it is all I would have ever imagined a market to be, and more. Pick-pocketing is supposed to be quite common here – no wonder, with everybody pressed so close together – and I try to remember to stay aware of my camera as well as my wallet. It is hard, though, because there is so much to see. I finally put the camera in the purse with the wallet and decide that looking is more important than taking pictures, which would be difficult in this seething mass of people anyway.

How will we ever be able to find anything here, when the offer seems limitless, and every seller tries to attract our attention as soon as we slow down for a moment? We feel exhausted after the first twenty minutes and push through the crowds without stopping anywhere, eager to find a quieter street, to regain our bearings. Finally we have arrived at the outskirts of the market area and find ourselves in front of a beautifully carved door leading into a cool courtyard with well-kept beds of roses, a sign announcing this to be the “Maya Lodge”.   

This is exactly what we need at the moment: some breathing space, a cup of coffee, and welcome shade. There is even music: a Maya musician is playing the marimba in the center of the courtyard, three macaws sitting on perches above him. We saw marimbas in a museum of musical instruments on our coffee tour in Antigua, and now I hear it played live here – what a treat! The marimba is a traditional Guatemalan instrument, originally built from rosewood, with gourds of different sizes used as resonators. The player plays two different rhythms with the right and left hand, which makes it sound quite complicated, and I watch, fascinated, how he gets back into it after he takes short breaks to give his listeners the opportunity to place a tip in the bowls ‘guarded’ by the Macaws.

Marimba player

We finish our coffee, and now feel ready to tackle the market in earnest.

 We’ve been told that we NEED to barter – it is expected, the ritual part of the sale. This is something I am not good at, I know that much; how am I going to do it? How do I know where to start? If I start too low with my offer I might hurt the seller’s feelings, and if I start too high I won’t be taken seriously – but then, that’s a good possibility anyway, and I’m sure we’ve been indulged by the locals in other ways already, thinking we were doing something right, yet showing how little we know about the customs. I suppose there is only one thing to do: plunge in.

Johann, who isn’t very fond of shopping at the best of times, felt little inclination to even enter this market madhouse, but when Kurt starts bartering for a carved mask he, too, is starting to pay attention. There is a whole wall of them in the stall where we stop after looking around a bit, fist-sized to half a meter long or more, painted or just polished to a dull shine. The designs, too, vary, but many have the traditional Maya symbols in different configurations. Ever-important is corn, because the Maya believed that’s what they were created from, there is the jaguar, the snake, the turtle, and others. Gerda has her eye on a medium sized black mask and Kurt, the assigned barterer, makes his first offer, about half the asking price. The middle-aged seller smiles, revealing several missing teeth, and shakes her head. Though I don’t understand quite what she’s saying I can see she tells him that this is way too low, and makes a counter-offer. It goes back and forth for a while, the woman getting ever merrier, and when they finally come to an understanding she is laughing. She has had fun doing this, I realize. And so have we!

It’s my turn next, trying to acquire a small carved wooden owl for my mother. I am much too timid, of course, and I soon have my owl, for less than the asking price, at least. Maybe I’ll get the hang of this yet. I don’t have Johann’s thick skin when it comes to this skill, have trouble offering a low price when I see how much work went into making something. Yet, my next transaction takes a little longer, and the cloth merchant throws in four napkins with the place mats I bargained for.

Johann, meanwhile, is starting to enjoy himself, and now is looking for a project of his own. We have passed several stalls with antiques, both so-called and real: knives, machetes, tea pots, etc. Most of them have rusty blades and all have been used at some time, I’m sure. Some come with simple plastic hilts, others with ones carved from antlers, and there is one decorated with a brass cock’s head he quite likes. He barters a bit with the woman who sells them, but can’t get her price low enough for his liking. When he walks away, a toothless old man approaches him: he, too, has machetes for sale, and among them is a real beauty. It has a brass jaguar head, an antler hilt, and a well-worn elaborate leather scabbard. The price is exorbitant: 600 quetzales, about $80, and Johann waves him off. The man, however, wants Johann to make an offer. Finally Johann offers him 200 quetzales, which, of course, is not acceptable to the man. Johann walks away – that’s that, then – but the man doesn’t give up easily. He follows him around, asking him again and again to make an offer, until Johann finally relents: okay, 250 quetzales then. No, the man says – and again Johann walks away. This game lasts for a long time, the man following Johann, by now joined by several other hawkers who also want to get rid of their wares, and in the end they agree on 260 quetzales, both of them very happy.  

There are other transactions, like the two panama hats Johann and Kurt buy for the price of one, and others that don’t work out: when I walk away from a jewellery seller because the price for his earrings seem too high he just lets me go, and when Gerda offers too low a price for the liking of a woman who sells bags she just packs her things away and ignores her, turning away, thus giving us a taste of our own medicine.

Much too fast time passes. We have had a lot of fun, but there are situations where I have to fight to stay firm, too. Once I make the mistake of looking at a beautiful red and black cloth, traditional motives woven in, part of a bundle a young mother is carrying around. I don’t want to buy it, just admire its beauty. I shouldn’t have! She now follows me around, telling me her price, then lowers it continuously, starting out in Spanish, later switching to a few words of English, while I try to ignore her all the while. Finally, half way across the busy market, still following in my tow, she pulls her last trump card: für die Schwiegermutter! she implores me, in German –for the mother-in-law. ...

I leave Chichi both exhilarated and slightly sad. This place is so alive, there are so many encounters, so much excitement, such wonderful art is created by these people who are yet so poor. They start out each Thursday and each Sunday with such high hopes of selling most, if not all of the beautiful pieces of art they have worked on during the week, often longer. How often, I wonder, do they have to pack in much of what they spread out in the morning at night again? How many of them have to go hungry sometimes? How many of the children we saw don’t get to go to school?

There is no way to tell from our short visit, even though we find ourselves in the part of the market not frequented by tourists at one point, the part where locals have come for centuries to buy their vegetables and spices, bread and meat, clothes and utensils. We buy a bag of buns - not bartering this time - and return to the main market at the next intersection, once again looking at the face Chichicastenango shows on postcards and photographs, the face it shows to the world.

A postcard from far away

A few days ago a postcard arrived in the mail. It was addressed to our children and bore my handwriting. The picture showed a woman in traditional Mayan clothing surrounded by earthenware pots on the steps of a church in Chichicastenango. After more than a month of travel this card had breached the distance between San Pedro La Laguna in Guatemala and our farm south of Westlock, Alberta, Canada.

Immediately I was transported back to the day I sent the card. It was Friday afternoon, the last day of our stay on Lake Atitlan. By now I knew my way around town reasonably well, but hadn’t encountered the post office yet. Not sure enough of my Spanish to enquire about its whereabouts with any certainty I remembered our English speaking tour guide operator in the Bigfoot Travel Agency a short distance from our hotel. I was told to walk up the hill three blocks towards the center of town, then turn right. I’d find the post office right behind the Catholic church. I knew the way up the hill: many destinations could only reached by climbing it: the bank and the market, the panaderia,  the botilleria and the small super where we bought cheese and cookies, and, of course, the volcano we had climbed two days earlier: my calf and thigh muscles still told a painful story of hills and stairs climbed and descended.

One more climb, then –what better antidote than the very poison itself. It was midday, the sun beating straight down, and I was hot, as usual. Several benches in the neatly kept plaza in front of the church offered places to rest, but there weren’t any big trees, so shade was hard to find. Still, as in any other plaza people were sitting together in small groups, talking animatedly, some admiring the prominent feature, the statue of a saint, mothers with babies in strollers standing close to the surrounding wall to catch a bit of protection from the sun.

I crossed the plaza to get behind the church, as I had been told, but landed in a walled-in yard with basketball hoops – oh yes, here we had seen two local boys’ teams play on our first excursion into town on Sunday, undaunted by the fact that they were playing not on the hardwood floor of a gym but on asphalt. Their skins were brown, and their average size must have been about a foot less than that of a high school team back in Canada, but other than that the game looked much the same, and the spectators didn’t behave any differently either. 


The post office, however, was nowhere to be found. Back to the plaza, then, to find another way ‘behind the church’. Ah, yes, there was a gate on the west side that led to a small back street. Through that gate I left the plaza and now passed the old man with his hammer beside the pile of stones I mentioned in an earlier posting, talking to a young father with his two children, the hammer resting beside him. They nodded a ‘Buenas Tardes’ in reply to my greeting, a smile lighting up their faces like those of most other locals I encountered. If only I could have talked to them! But while there is a chance that I will be able to do that in Spanish eventually – maybe taking a course in just such a place as San Pedro which has several Spanish language schools - I’m sure I will never master their native T’zutujil.

   

A bit further up the street, by now starting to wonder if it was a good idea for me to be walking here all by myself, because I hadn’t seen any other person of my skin colour for quite some time, and it looked more and more decrepit, I finally saw the small “Correos de Guatemala” sign. A set of stairs led up to the shabby house over whose door the sign was posted. Walking up to it I noticed a suspicious looking rivulet making its way along one of the steps. The overwhelming smell of urine confirmed my suspicion, and I carefully stepped over it, wondering what else I might find here. Nothing much, it turned out, but a handwritten sign in English: “Closed. Open again from 3:30 to 5:30.” It was 2:45 now, and I felt little desire to spend 45 minutes waiting right there, so I slowly walked down the cobble-stoned hill, careful not to get in the way of one of the many tuk-tuks when I crossed the street, gazed at the displays of by now familiar little shops along the way, and went back to the hotel.

Johann, who had suffered from a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge for much of the day – blaming it on the Thai food we had eaten the night before in one of the many small open-air restaurants – felt well enough to accompany me when I made the second attempt to mail my cards. Again we exercised our aching muscles on our way up the hill, again we passed the old man with his hammer, now patiently splitting rocks for God knows which purpose,the same friendly smile crinkling his leathery face, again we carefully avoided the fourth step of the stairs leading up to the post office. This time, however, the door was unlocked. We entered a dark room, divided in two by a counter, that had little resemblance with any post office I had ever laid eyes on. A man in his thirties asked what we needed – in Spanish, of course; wherever the English sign might have come from I have no idea – and really came up with enough postage stamps. Johann, not wanting to lick the stamps, was looking for a sponge to moisten them (I, unscathed by Montezuma’s Revenge and thus much less careful, had started treating them like I treat any postage stamp right away), but the clerk brought him a “Pritt” glue stick instead. Who would have expected a German glue stick in this most unlikely place?

I handed my five or six postcards to the man, wondering if they would ever arrive at their destination. It seemed almost impossible, and yet here I am, listening to the winter wind howling around the house, holding in my hands yet another proof how wrong it is to draw conclusions based on outward appearance. 


A woman praising her wares on the steps of a church in Chichicastenango – how strange to think that I walked by those very steps only a few short weeks ago ...

Perihelion

Lengthening shadows

A new year has begun, but the pace on the farm hasn’t picked up yet. Days are starting to get longer, and like every year I am amazed how long it really takes until this is noticeable. In the morning, change comes slowly: almost two weeks after the shortest day of the year the sun rose exactly one minute earlier today than on December 22^nd. In the evening, however, we have gained twelve minutes now – yes, we keep track quite diligently, because when days are so short, every minute counts.

Days are still short, but other than that it barely feels like winter. The day after our return from Central America was the coldest in the last three weeks, and precipitation has been falling as rain or freezing rain, not as snow. The snow has been reduced to a thin layer, with many bare spots on the lawn and in the fields, except where the wind had pushed up snow drifts against hedges and fence rows, and everything is covered with a crust of ice. The highways are dry now and pose no problem, but gravel roads are treacherous, sheets of pure ice. Walking is difficult even on the lawn, and Leo, on four legs, seems to have more trouble than we do on two: often he loses his grip, his legs sliding in four different directions. It doesn’t seem to bother him, and he takes up his position at the front when we go for a walk along the field later in the afternoon.

It is warm today, plus seven, and the daily highs are supposed to stay above freezing for the next week or so. This is unusual, at least the length of this warm period in the middle of winter, but it is quite nice: even if it turns cold now, it cannot last longer than three months. Maybe this is a recompense for the long, cold, snowy winter we had last year.

Today is perihelion, the day when the earth is closest to the sun this year, about 1.5 million miles closer. Not a huge difference at an average distance of 93 million miles, and quite likely not the reason for this balmy weather.