Spanish School

by Leona Round (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Guatemala

In the Spanish language, there are two words for knowledge: saber to know information and conocer to know deeply, to know some-one, some thing. To be woven into some place. Like Adam knew Eve. Like you know the palm of your hand of the sole of your foot. Arriving in Guatemala for Spanish school, I was equipped with saber. I planned to learn a language. Beware in Guatemala, I was warned, there are guns and bullets. They’ll steal your children. But in the concrete and exhaust fumes of the arrivals side of the airport, it was embroidery that caught my eye. Indigenous ladies wandered or waited in clothes of vibrant colour. I went to school and met my teacher. She mentioned her grandmother - abuela - was indigenous, then went on to teach me the rules of verbs. She explained that knowledge is irregular: saber becomes supe – I knew, and concocer goes conozco – I know. Learning is exhausting. I sleep and wake in the shadow of the fire volcano whose ash and dust coat the terrace. Teacher says she lives in a village on the side of the mountain. The faithful in the village parade each September and pray to San Miguel. They say he protects them from lava each time the volcano spews. Each morning I walk to school. Outside, ladies sweep away the night’s ash and sprinkle water on the paving stones. In the evening I brush off the dust and wash my feet, and the feet of my children. But the fine blackness of the ash remains in the lines of our footprints. Our feet know the ash - conocer. One day, we read. I saw a word I hadn’t seen before - huelle. It struck me for the unusual spelling. Footprint said the teacher. It means footprint. I know a new word - saber. During class she tells me to point my finger at este - this close thing and aquello - that far away thing. I learn the mood to express what could have been or should have been. Grammar practise demands examples. The teacher tells her stories. "If only" my mother had taught me Kaqchikel. "I wish I had" worn the clothes of my indigenous heritage. But she couldn’t, she didn’t, because of 36 years of civil war, of silence, or only Spanish. Years when words of Kaqchikel or Tz'utujil would earn a pointed gun and a fired bullet to the heart. The indigenous hearts were called rebellious, but their blood still bled redblack, and the land still knows their tears - conocer. Teacher was a child in the 1980s during the "if" world of the past. Over summer her father made them stay at abuela’s house. Teacher said she didn’t like it. She said it was always very dark at night. When the sun set, the only light was a candle, hidden under the table, like under a bushel basket. Too much candlelight made a beacon in the night for the army and their guns. Thus, children stopped learning their native tongues and their mothers dressed them in clothes of far less colour. The years wore on and the knowledge - conocer that bound the culture began to weaken. It’s triste - sad - I tell my teacher as her stories continue. In one generation, so much lost. That small Spanish word seems too weak. Teacher tells me I pass through Guatemala as many have passed before. The Maya who left their pyramids and weaving traditions. The Spanish who left their Catholic Saints. Culture after culture and traveller after traveller have arrived and left their footprints on the place. I expected to do the same, in a fleeting and tiptoe way. My purpose to know better Spanish - saber. It was time to go. I held my children's hands and walked through the departure side of the airport. We passed the ladies in their colourful weaving. They commented in Spanish on my daughter’s blonde hair. We left Guatemala. Guatemala did not leave me. It left a footprint - huelle. Not a footprint in the dust that’s swept away, but something harder to describe. My teacher taught me Spanish, but her stories revealed more. I arrived and I knew - supe Guatemala, but now I conozco.