Lake Atitlan, and: Election Day, Chiapas, and: Day of the Dead, and: Chalchuapa, and: Somewhere In Mexico, and: Brazil, and: Little Portugal

Abstract

Lake Atitlán The guidebook said it was beautiful - two volcanoes loomed over the lake, the smaller one not quite ready to erupt, coughing like a teenager smoking her first joint. And there were fewer tourists, since the soldiers opened fire on the market, killing an American and hundreds of peasants, splattering blood and vegetables in the square. The lake was not for swimming, but you could sway on a hammock, sip coconut milk by the shore or spoon avocado from its rind - you could buy whatever you chose. You wore a long skirt and no shoes, dived so easily off the rocks he thought you were native, greeted you in a language neither of you knew. You laughed because you'd seen him in the market, haggling for a melon. He pulled out the fruit, promised not to fight for it, said he was tired of fighting, said he'd like to share with you, please take some. [End Page 159] That night he unlatched the door to your room. You were sleeping on a straw mat that scratched. He was not gentle either, grinding sand in your mouth and eyes. Which is how you learned: roosters pecking at corn husks, rain through the bamboo roof, mark of straw on your back, in a place where nothing hurt enough. Election Day, Chiapas Outside San Cristóbol before the election, we stopped at the last checkpoint. A man sauntered on board the bus, toting a heavy gun. He grabbed our papers, thumbed through mine to see where I'd been, said I was far from home for an American. That first night I roomed with a Canadian who was reporting on the election. You can be my interpreter, he said, flashing his press pass. A polite man, he asked, May I? before climbing into bed. Our cots creaked over the din of the TV. In town an anchorman for national TV thrust a microphone at an Indian woman. She knelt before him on a bed [End Page 160] of pine needles, predicting the election. I watched them until the anchorman questioned me. I'm not with anyone, I said. It is dangerous to walk alone, he said. He pulled me toward him, his breath heavy, and I tripped on his feet. Then the anchorman lifted me off the ground and danced Mexican: my body his. I asked about the election. I like your lips, he replied, moving to the bed. The next day I awoke in his bed. I would like to see you again, he said. But it was the morning of the election. He rushed into the street with his TV crew. They filmed a group of Chiapan farmers who traveled all day, a woman grabbing at ballots, a camouflaged man poised in the crowd. I did not go to bed that night: I recalled the Canadian man alone in his room, and what he'd said about interpreting; I thought of the TV man who would leave after the election. As I gathered my bags after the election, the Canadian man sat in front of the TV, watching me instead. I've been robbed, he said. [End Page 161] Day of the Dead 1. Even my friends thought you ugly: small and pockmarked, hands deep in your pockets. Yours didn't know about me. Rubbing against me on the floor of a classroom, splinters in my back, you closed your zipper when wind knocked the door. You whispered about plans, and we made private vows; I would forget and talk too loud because I was American. 2. The coast wasn't what I'd hoped: the air thick with swarming insects, the water warm as tears, your hands groping. In your pocket plastic crinkled, but it was too hot to touch. Sometimes you didn't say much after the first few drinks. We must have held each other sleeping on the bus. [End Page...