Saturday, July 24, 2010

Goats in Guate



Guatemala City is a terrible and marvelous place. When I lived here fifteen years ago, in the city center (zone 1), I had no fear of returning to my pensión late at night. My route from the bus stop at the Parque Concordia ran through the neighborhood where gay and straight prostitutes plied their trade, and, except for a few catcalls--"chi-chi, guapito"--I was never bothered, though it was depressing to see how young some of those kids were. Now, everything shuts down by 7:00pm, and people close themselves behind barricaded doors and concertina wire. People leaving the city center at night, if they can afford it, get a special taxi service that time-stamps their pick-up and drop-off times, with recorded emergency contact information on hand, in case there's a kidnapping or other criminal threat.

Of course, some things have changed. Back in my Peace Corps days in the mid-80s, beggars asked for cinco centavos. Now it’s a quetzalito. The Parque Central has been completely refurbished, with pedestrian walkways instead of streets on three sides. And the city is making Sixth Avenue, the main commercial street between the National Palace and the government buildings 15 blocks away, a pedestrian passageway with express bus service down the middle. It’s still a work-in-progress, so pedestrians have to navigate the holes, ditches, flying clods of clay being tossed around by the diggers, and dump trucks inching their way along the narrow way. Yesterday I saw one truck’s right side tire inching over the edge into a four foot deep ditch and waved frantically at the driver while women behind me shouted “Se va allí, se va allí!” Why in god’s name there was no one in front of the truck to guide the driver, I don’t know, but así es, and as the truck crawled by us the driver, smiling, said “gracias,” as if we had opened a door for him or something rather than averting a construction-site catastrophe.

Today, while out to get some cash and a newspaper, I walked this same avenida, this time avoiding motorcycles and cyclists rather than trucks. I saw two small groups of blind young adults, apparently getting lessons on how to negotiate the streets. One was stopped at a light, and it’s leader was explaining something, while another group behind was in the middle of a little herd of goats—yes, smack dab in the middle of Guate, goats, which is why I can stand the concussive noise and acrid odors of this city. While the leader took their hands one by one to feel the goats, I asked the goat-tender if he was selling goat milk to the restaurants and stores along the way and he said no, and pulled out of stack of styrofoam cups from his shoulder bag. Twenty years ago I would have bought a cup of milk, but, for good or ill, I’m much more cautious now that I’m of AARP age. But maybe my years have also taught me how to see something lovely in all this seeming mess.