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Pashapa - tortilla with dulce

the road is a good companion. I am there I feel good with her.

I drove for four hours, spent hundreds of Aldea, bridges, landslides ...
then I got a black pick-up and for another two hours I let my back against the vehicle body sbattesse that climbed up a dirt path and bumpy.

I walked on foot and reached the houses. people.

the road accompanied me, do not leave me alone for a moment and I am grateful. the road link. communication. the road is possible. certainty.

now I have back pain and possibly some bruising at the sacrum. the dust still in his mouth, his hair got tired by the hot ...

but mostly I rubbed my eyes to the beauty of landscapes, from the simplicity of welcome
hands clasped in the embrace that I left there smiling
collected in the memories of those I met in their faces


their wishes in the dignity of life who wish to live.

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that his grace bless us

immersed in the field: again slammed into misery. In short this time, on this trip, is this: there is no notice or warning. I'm here with one foot in the order of the university academic, offices of UNESCO, meeting here know that only clean and organize the other in mud, one of the destroyed houses but also symbolic of the lives of people who have not experienced the tragedy of the flooding, the drama of their daily living at all.

now this drama has the eyes of a child of four months which is called as me. I sit down to earth and the cradle of his mother while he rummages among the dirty feet from used clothes and choose something that can fit them ... this single mom, who has a home, does not even have a bed. This mom is just a story like so many others. This mom gives me her baby in her arms and embraced me at the end to thank me for having cheated on his card: Everyone is entitled to ten of clothes and shoes, but she tried a dress, beautiful, color of cherries and it would be the eleventh

and is in very good

and smiles at me because he'd like,
smiles and quietly asked me the deception. and I trick, I write that you are taking away ten things in the bag even if there are eleven.
a dress less to another mother who will come tomorrow, or next day ...

I save all these mothers, these women.

their first feel nothing, then processes the needless and senseless guilt for too much and my thoughts and feelings are shocked at the clarity in the face of this injustice. makes me angry and I am horrified because I know that we do not save None.

begging because when you live the kind of deception that now this mother has begged me then you are out. cut off from anything that makes sense.
because when you are in the situation of being begged for the kind of deception that now this mother has begged me then it is the same as outside.
cut off from anything that makes sense.
accept such a thing does not make sense: it makes no sense to think of living on welfare, as well as hiding behind anything makes no sense to build solidarity sull'assistenzialismo, exhibiting its too much.

are here with one foot in the order and the other in the mud, but I find it contradictory. I find it stimulating. I find that the baby I cradled in my arms should be the driving force of institutional meetings. His grace should bless us because our feet are in front and custody of his future and the work of our present.

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air density in the mud

Andrea says that the air here is thick and perhaps this is the spell of this place. for the first time in my life I have proof that there really is something magical about breathing in this land ... so far I was, perhaps drawn from my navel left here by the suggestions ...

intensity deep fills and empties at the same time fills the senses awaken, they find the reason for their existence, clear your mind of useless thoughts, binds to the concrete, the spontaneity of things lived day by day, as they come, no expectations, with genuine hope.

shoveling mud out of his house full to the brim with brown water, a man tells me jokingly to be careful not to get when I enter the floor: I am surprised, to mention but a laugh is too much for me to laugh out loud like he does.

in any case, the paranoia in a moment erase ..

remains the concern.
that is impossible to send away for these contradictions are everywhere
a smile in despair
the rain with the sun
rules in the chaos
luxury in poverty
uncertainty
calm tranquility with the precariousness
warm in the cold

markets smells and colors are so numerous and so strong that gets in your nose and eyes to leave them stunned:
spices herbs woven leather creep into the mind and veins transport them together forever blood.
The smell of thousands of Guatemala is pervasive odors

intense woody


spicy hot humid

burning
bulky
forever will be part of that nostalgia every so slight that it suddenly returns to an unbalanced a bit 'the things, gently caress the magnetic attraction of this part of the world.

forest sounds fill the air and confuse the soul: birds, cicadas monkeys ... the Temple 2 at Tikal and close my eyes for a moment to listen to the rest of nature around me, around me I enter and I enter into her, she shakes it together all the noise deafening. leaves and who knows what else moves in there in an impenetrable tangle of branches and trees and shrubs, vines, trees, animals ...

step in the footsteps of the ancient Maya, climb up on top of their majestic temples and it seems impossible that there are more who have lived and walked, studied, prayed, made love and made war between the stones that speak of culture and writing, glories and miseries.
today is forest, but yesterday they were living under this sun, these stars, following the rolling motion of the planets and the Milky Way over their head.
is said to be much more cruel to us, certainly were more focused in their essence in their beliefs, their hopes and their truth.
have left a legacy far wiser than we are leaving us.

these stones that speak of markets and trade, battles and ceremonies, books engraved in time and memory words are passed down from the witness walk, where you can climb up and you can touch, of their size ...

not lost.

words remained and even the ancient rites that have the power to unite in a single breath man, nature, history and future, that run for thousands of years this time round that ends and begins again, and there goes there to trample us to evolve to be even better men.
despite the violence of a severed head on the ground of the juego de pelota
today despite the lynchings in the public squares of offenders deemed by the Community Justice

beyond me how Western society can think of believing in a higher civilization this in the past and present.
to war over oil and money
beat and kill young people in prison while we boast of having a democratic and equitable society in its territory
have a school of torture
shoot on sight for immigrants working for us in the tomato fields
interest only interest
fire on anti-war bombing civilians

planning and implementation of genocide ...

and bog down the possibilities of human expression technology
not care as much as possible of the next planting
dishes in the jungle
invent plastics, Commerce and then go around to preach on eco.

bullshit.
nothing to do with something approaching the wisdom of the Maya.
at least they made them human sacrifices because they believed in something ...

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and then, without knowing how, I found myself in the mud.
and people with nothing.
are those who first had nothing and now have even less of that at all and will continue to have nothing, nothing less ...

messed up my time has run merged with images of homes destroyed by water, with the illusion of seeing where they stood still, those who now are gone, the river sucked.
an expanse of mud and debris and dark spots, splashes of water and earth walls
to show up where you got the power of the destruction, the gratings of the windows
uprooted by the fury of nature and the faces of people angry
:
eyes of the old and past destruction, the patience to start again from scratch;
those of children and the warm smile and the desire to take your hand, you're different and you're there, a symbol of other possibilities;
eyes, hidden by masks to avoid breathing the dust, the men who shovel the mud for days and days and collect the pieces of their lives wet and dirty unfortunate.

there is despair.

the first accompanies the acceptance of anything of anything today.

even humanitarian aid for them. just a little 'luck of'acqua brought there by a group arranged together by chance.

coincidentally, I also have a can in his hand and then another and another. and I'm part of that group.

and by chance I find myself on a battered pick-up and tossed on the rough road and unfit for use and jump down in the rain, get into what remains of houses, plod through the mud with my beautiful white shoes and sink in, smile at people and give them a miserable aid that does not cost me anything. because it is by chance that I'm giving you.

risbatte my life in the concrete. there is no room for thoughts soul today or for the paranoid, the questions about how and why.

there are only images in the mind like the caked mud that we no longer know where to throw. only the rain on my face and my shoes these dirty hands that have touched me as I passed them the bottle and dark eyes deepened with sadness but not veiled with tears rather stressed by the smiles.

I'm not raining today. none of these people is raining on me. I tumble into it.

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me drink

then, at some point, it gets dark and starts to rain.
fortissimo.
although a moment before the sun was shining.

so strong that it seems that the ceiling is down:

is the strength I need.

heaven sends me down to

splashing water and I drink it.

I drink it'll be alright
that this effort will turn into harmony
that will overcome the difficult victory of freedom that this loneliness will
sweetness.

me I drink it.

is the land that welcomes me,

the flavor of the tortillas, which makes me feel at home,

that God is with me,
my life that goes on right.

and even if she does not seem so

Bevo me ...

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Tinimit - El pueblo

agate and pacaya

My people are great.

have to scrub land
hands, feeling

tree in the forests,

revere their rituals ...

as squirrels scamper
for its roads and sidewalks
to taste it,
the simplicity of his greatness.

Before ti nutinimit

Rajawaxik to Malama 'jun

rulewal pa ri uq'ab'

kujaluj che 'ri chuxo'l ka'achelaj

Kojixik'anik them oj k'o kuk

Taq b'e pa, pa Taq uqab'b'e

xa jewa kaqana 'ri uki'al

ri ri unimal laj.

. Humberto Ak'abal.