Over Guatemalan coffee.

by Natalia Furtado (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Guatemala

Turn the clock back 8 years ago, I uncomfortably lean on my backpack waiting to go through a disorderly but quick border crossing to finally set foot in the Guatemalan Western Highlands. As I get my bearings, I slowly inhale the cold sweet air in the once Mayan capital of Quetzaltenango. I meander around the central plaza and quickly find a tourist van that will take me to Lake Atitlán. I can’t remember how I heard of this place but I wanted a break from chaotic cities to enjoy a scenic sleepy town. I am promptly ushered into the van, the driver advises me to hide my valuables under the seat in case we’re ambushed by muggers on the highway. Even so, I need to be prepared to lose everything. I accept the risk. A few hours later, the ride was smooth and hassle free. They dump me off in what appears to be a central street. Wooden and cement houses are propped up right on the giant lake’s edge high up in the Sierra Madre mountain range. Small boats hum around the bay and the San Pedro volcano looms above the peaceful town at its feet. It’s an isolated place. I start to chat with two young local Tz'utujil women selling their vibrant multicolored garments along the roadside. Their midnight black hair shines down to their waist. I envy their rosy cheeks and assuredness of their lives. As we chatter about how they make their clothes to sell to tourists, they offer to take me to try Guatemalan coffee down the road. Minutes later, we wander down the half mud, half cement road to a tiny wooden shack on the lake’s edge, it seems like it’s hardly being held up properly and I can hear the water ebbing against its outside walls. The girls leave to make the coffee and it feels odd to be alone in this room. I sit on a hard, wonky wooden chair and stare at the walls. Soon after in walks a man, he too has midnight black hair, he’s taller than most with strong Mayan features. His name is Rafael and he hands me a small glass of hot coffee. He sits down and doubt immediately creeps in as I wonder if he’s going to ask me for money. I’m fluent in Spanish and so I begin the small talk. A while later, Rafael inquires as to why I’m traveling, specifically what brought me to Guatemala. I tell him that I’m half Uruguayan and am in search of my roots. Latin American countries although appear quite disparate between them, hold a common history and struggle. I feel that while I’m lost in travel here, I learn to appreciate those struggles. He opens up and probes me about my origins. I tell him about my dad fleeing Uruguay in the 70s from a brutal dictatorship. Fleeing from experiencing daily violence on the streets he knew and trusted so well. Fleeing from the constant fear for his life that would soon lead him to leave behind everything in total desperation. He witnessed officials battering women and men, breaking into houses to visibly kidnap “suspicious dissidents” and forcefully take them away. Never to be seen again. He finally escaped on a French cargo ship and headed into an unknown future. Rafael is staring at me blankly, I ask him if he was aware of the dictatorship and the consequences it has passed down onto future generations. He tells me that during the 36 year Guatemalan Civil War, he witnessed indigenous communities being decimated. As blood tainted colonial cobblestones yet again, fear to leave the house led families to live off one loaf of bread for a week. His father went suspiciously missing over 20 years ago. He’s still looking for him to this day. I gulp down the familiar pain of disappeared family members. Silent sobbing follows and Rafael although a broken man, has no fear in talking about a reality once lived. Over Guatemalan coffee, an unforeseen encounter in a lakeside town gave me a perspective on a sad reality shared by many more than it should.