Living Rootless

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Flashback to July 2011: To Gurjaani, A Weekend in the Country

Five years ago, I lived in Caucasus Georgia. Gosh darn it was hot in July! On this particular weekend, I was able to escape the city and visit the countryside. The charm of Tuscany has nothing on rural Georgia.

Of course, even Rembrandt paintings have the occasional fly on the fruit.

Friday, July 29, 2011

To Gurjaani: A Weekend in the Country

Today, I took a marshrutka from Rustavi to Gurjaani, with the assistance of my host Giorgi. I'd spend the weekend there with his mother, Nino, and her sisters and other relatives. But first, today's Building Behind Me:

Building Behind Me 072911

It was good to get out of Rustavi and to see actual countryside again. The breeze coming through the window felt good. I noticed that the Georgians are a quiet bunch in the minibus. No thank yous to the bus driver when paying their money and getting off. And the bus driver feels no compunction about stopping on a spot in the road that forces a disembarkee to step into weeds.

At any rate, presently we arrived in Gurjaani and soon enough I saw Nino and several young'ns anxiously looking out for my arrival. Nino felt very relieved when I came. We walked down a gravel-y road between strong, two-story, stone-and-brick houses, all in the same style.

Gurjaani residential street

Gurjaani house

We didn't walk far before getting to Nino's parent's homestead, where Nino's sister, Maia, lives. Forty days ago, their mother had died, and this get-together was a customary gathering that occurs 40 days after the loved one's death. It marks an end to a period of mourning. (I seem to recall Ayano, of the Bale Mountains in Ethiopia, telling me of a similar process. Once the 40-day mark occurs, the next and final note of the mourning is the first year's anniversary of the loved one's death. I wonder if the same happens in Georgia.)

Entering the family compound, I see beautiful flowers, a table under a grape arbor, at which several men sat amidst food and drink, and women and girls coming toward me. We went inside the house, where the women soon filled a table with breads, fruits, fish, meats, cheeses, and other things I can't remember. With the dusk light coming in, it was all very Rembrandt-ish.

A supra in Gurjaani, Georgia. July 2011.

Served with dinner was a very nice local wine. Many beautiful toasts wishing me, my family, my country, and then everyone's family and country well.

I loved the mackerel, lightly battered. Very meaty. Hostesses were Maia and sisters Nino (my hostess), Mzia, and Nely. Maia was their mother's primary caretaker before she died. She'd been blind for some years. Also present were Nely's and Mzia's granddaughters, Little Nely, Nino, and Mariami. Neighbors also stopped by, including Nika, her sister Vika, brother Martin, another neighbor Giorgi, Ketel, Manana #1 and Manana #2, and Manana #2's daughter, Tina.

There were numerous beds in the house's lower level. Mzia, I discovered later, slept on a bed outside in the courtyard.

.... umm, did I mention the squat toilet in the brick house outside? Yeah.

The family and neighbors --- very pleasant and hospitable.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala: Santa Cruz: Santa Elena Church

Santa Elena Church, Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Ah, so many churches to walk into in the world. Can one ever tire of visiting churches?

Yes.

I think maybe historic houses of worship in destination lands are like fast food, in a way. Low-hanging cultural fruit, one on every corner, easy to enter. And we can feel culturally virtuous upon visiting same. But even a diet of fast food wears, tasty though it may be.

Decades ago, a brother and I traveled together to Western Europe. If we saw a church, pretty much, we went inside. History! Art! Architecture! But there came a point when we agreed that we did not care to enter even one more Romanesque, Gothic, or any other 'esque or 'ic for the duration of our trip. And we did not.

In Caucasus Georgia, I also reached my fill, to the disappointment of my hostess, Neli, who wished me to appreciate the unique historical, architectural, or spiritual nuances that each and every Georgian church possessed.

But I had not yet reached the saturation point in Guatemala when I visited Santa Cruz, so when I saw the doors to the Santa Elena Church open, I went in, of course.

Santa Elena Church, Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

I didn't do much in Santa Cruz other than visit the church and the café. There was a small farmer's market happening in a building off the square, and I bought some fruit.

Boys played basketball in the town square.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala: Up to Santa Cruz

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Santa Cruz' village center is up high from the public dock. The road to the village is steep. In the photo above, do you see the multi-story yellow structure? That's the artisanal and culinary arts school. That's our destination.

Let's take that walk up the hill, using the yellow vocational school as our focus.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Looking down toward the dock, we see a tuk-tuk tuk-tukking up the hill.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

We're getting closer.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Voilá, we have arrived at the summit.

Cafe Sabor Cruceño, Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

It's mid-afternoon. We've already had lunch and it's too early for dinner, so we have fresh mango juice. Yum. We enjoy the view. Despite the haze. Which is the curse of my month in Guatemala.

Cafe Sabor Cruceño, Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

We peek into the yard below and see ... what is that? .... a duck? a chicken? a chuck? ..... sitting atop a dog, which doesn't seem to mind.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

I'm sure the neighbors love having tourists peering into their yard every day. Maybe the more polite tourists don't peer.

Santa Cruz, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Well, the name of this journal isn't Living Peerless.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala: A Visit to Jaibalito

Neighborhood market and cafe, Jaibalito, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Jaibalito is a village on Lake Atitlan that neighbors Santa Cruz. You can walk between Jaibalito and Santa Cruz or you can take a launch between the two village docks.

My original plan was to walk, and I set out to do just that.

But I allowed myself to listen too closely to my fearful side. On occasion, tourists experience robberies on the path between one village and another. My impression was that, as it pertained to the path between Santa Cruz and Jaibalito, it would *probably* not be an issue.

Years ago, when I was in my 20s, I did a summer study in Ecuador and Peru. The mother of one of my fellow students came with her daughter. I don't remember her name, so I'll call her Dorothy. Dorothy was probably in her 50s. She had silver hair. Peru at that time was rife with pickpockets who used a variety of creative ploys to separate you from your valuables. Pickpockets singled Dorothy out for several attempts. In other words, thieves perceived her as the weak gazelle to be culled from the herd, simply because of her age. I filed this observation in my memory bank.

It doesn't matter if I, as now that woman with silver hair, could ward off a theft attempt. What matters is that I might be put in the position of handling such an assault, when a younger traveler might not, simply because the perception exists that I am more vulnerable. This is annoying, but it's a variable that's got to be considered.

Another variable in my intended walk was that I was alone, which I also factored into my risk calculations.

I think what clinched it for me, though - the decision to take the boat instead of walking - was when I reached a point in the walk where I was veering away from the openness of the water and a line of houses, into what seemed secluded woods, and I thought: Dogs. Mean dogs.

Risk management is a balancing act. I talk with my English-language students about the connotation of some words; where they are on a continuum of similar meaning. In the vocabulary of risk, I strive to be adventurous yet prudent. I try to avoid being foolhardy or fearful.

Was it safe for me to walk from Santa Cruz to Jaibalito? I think it probably would have been just fine. On this day, however, fearfulness won out.

These negotiations of the mind. They are part of solo travel.

Laundry day in Jaibalito, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Lake Atitlan communities are home to both Mayans and to affluent expats or Guatemalans, "affluent" being a relative term. The Mayans are unlikely to have decent access to education, good healthcare and nutrition, and well, many choices in general about their life trajectories.

Shortly after I disembarked from the launch and approached the hamlet from the dock, a local gentleman came up to me and inquired if I was looking to buy property. If so, he would be delighted to assist me in doing so.

At the Jaibalito dock, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

My first stop was at a tiny market and cafe, where I ordered a café con leche, and just sat in a chair while I took things in. I had no agenda in Jaibalito other than to poke around. Oh, and have lunch somewhere.

No, none of these chickens were lunch:

Jaibalito rooster, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

Jaibalito hen and chicks, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

I passed a church as I wended my way upward through the village. The door was open. This must mean I'm invited inside, right?

Renovacion Carisma Catolica Church, Jaibalito, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala. April 2016.

I did have lunch in Jaibalito, at the Posada Jaibalito. The lunch wasn't remarkable one way or another, but my heart fluttered at the idea of the hearty, homemade German bread offered there. I bought a loaf, in which I indulged over the next day and a half.

The above-pictured chickens provided some entertainment at the Posada, which has a tropical-lush backpacker-y vibe. Meals on wooden tables, which are under a roof, but open on all sides.

I filmed the trip back to Santa Cruz on the launch below: