Small Shop in Panajachel Market: He was watching carefully as I interacted with the shop woman. His eyes were laughing and he was struggling to hide his amusement at the whole situation. I don’t blame him for laughing. Even I could appreciate the humor of my predicament. The elderly shop woman was swiftly winning our bartering transaction. I really didn’t have a chance. I must confess—I am not a barterer. So, as the woman slowly turned my change into kitchy key rings in the shape of frogs and ladybugs, I waved my white flag of surrender. At least I entertained Hector who, I must say, thoroughly enjoyed watching me crash and burn in that little store. I have neither the heart nor the stamina to barter. I choked during all the traditional bartering actions. Countering the already insanely low price with an even more insanely low price, saying no to the seller, walking away, then, just as you reach the door the seller suddenly changing his/her mind. I can’t do it. It stresses me out. At the same time, I carry vast amounts of guilt with my American dollars. Dollars that are so much stronger than the local currency—the Quetzale. 8Q=$1. So, when I watch Americans bartering over 10Q, I wonder how much that $1 or so is worth to me versus the worth of 10Q to the shop person. Even though the shop woman had immense power over me in the bartering transaction, my national currency—with all its buying power—afforded me a different level of power. It was something I could not pretend did not exist.
Because I teach Karl Marx and socioeconomic issues, I see transactions such as the one I had with that tiny woman in Panajachel as more than simply surface interactions between buyers and sellers. I—for better or for worse—see a whole system of economic turmoil bubbling beneath the surface of those bartering transactions. I may not know all the economic jargon and precise ways in which exchange rates are generated, but I do see the implications of those exchange rates and the history and social context that go into the establishment of those rates. And it isn’t a pretty picture.
The markets at Panajachel and Chichicastenango were the places I felt my American-ness at its finest (please note sarcasm). Americans—United States Americans—are consumers. In those markets, I felt like that was all we were. Consumers. Buyers. Income. The shop owners and street sellers know this. The tourist trade knows this. And at times, I think we comprehend ourselves as such, but it is hard to control. And I get it. We all want memories to hold on to and to give to others upon our return. I am not innocent of this, which is what makes it all the more challenging. But as I watched the tourists all over those markets, I could not help but feel sick, overwhelmed, and depressed.
What makes a memory, though? Is it the object? Is it the frog key chain that I now have? Or is it the story of attaining it? I can tell you, the bemused look on Hector’s face and the twinkle in the shop woman’s eye are more firmly locked into my mind’s eye than that silly key chain. But the keychain is something I will give to my nephew—along with the story of his awkward aunt. As Angela told the students, we must tell the stories of our purchases (the commodities). That’s what’s important. People need to see the work of commodities if they want to really understand the broader realities of global economics. Even at its most simplistic. There is so much more to all the stuff we buy than its physical presence. The swirling memories and social relations inside of it are what interest me. And isn’t that what we’re trying to hold onto anyway? That intangible fragment of a moment? The meaning hidden within it? I know that’s what I’m after.
Mayan Church in Chichicastenango: As we stepped in, I realized this was exactly what I needed at that moment. I couldn’t take the intensity of the shops and sellers in the market, so Angela, Maia, Hector, and I sat at the back of the church. We happened to enter when there were baptisms going on, so we sat quietly and watched the families up at the altar. There were flat stone squares at the center of the aisle leading from the front door of the church to the altar. There was the residue of candle wax and flower petals on these stones. At several of these stone squares there were women and children kneeling and praying as they lit candles and spread the flower petals. There was a certain grace to the church that I cannot convey with words.
There was an elderly man sitting against the wall. I noticed him almost immediately after I sat down. He was tiny and so wrinkled. He was eating something—nuts or seeds, I couldn’t tell, but you could tell he needed more. After some time passed he walked up to me with his hands out, asking in Spanish for something. I didn’t know what to do. At that moment I panicked because I could not remember if it was appropriate to give money or food. If I were back in the states, I would have given something, but my anxiety over doing the right thing often leaves me actionlessness. I regret it now. I should have given him something. The only food I had, though, was a Luna bar and I doubt that would have been good. My heart broke as he continued to walk through the church asking for money.
The peacefulness of the church soon faded. The baptisms waned and there was an influx of American tourists. There are several rules about entering churches in Guatemala: no photographs, no hats, and no going to the altar area during services. Sadly (but not surprisingly), the Americans entering did not respect these rules. One woman in particular was blatantly disregarding all that was going on around her and I realized Angela was about to jump out of her skin she was so angry. This woman had on a visor and was snapping pictures continually as she walked around the church and up to the altar.
It was a great moment to witness Angela call out the woman for her actions. The woman’s response, though, made me physically sick. There was little respect for or understanding of where she was. And, in stereotypical American fashion, there was an air of entitlement mixed with privileged ignorance. She embodied the consumer identity with her camera as she captured the physical space in photograph after photograph. But it was done in a haphazard fashion, which made me wonder what images she was actually capturing. Even as we spoke to her, she continued to snap pictures. She really didn’t care. Her memories needed to be digital, I guess. Random images. Yet, I wonder where those photos will go. Will they stay on her digital memory card? Will they be shown to friends as she talks about her exotic adventures in Guatemala? Will they be hung in her den with all the other objects of her affection?
But in my judgment, I see my own image reflecting back in all the pictures I took and purchases I made. Does my attempt to respect the rules make me a better person? Does my (albeit) limited awareness mean I’m countering the reality of my privilege as an American in Guatemala? Is this woman such a terrible person or simply playing the expected part in a production that was going on long before our meeting in that church (and will be going on long after our interaction ended)? How do we counter the strong flows of global capitalism? How do we resist and make change? I wish I had answers to these questions. But at this point, all I can do is raise the questions.
Airplane from Guatemala City to Atlanta: Bride Wars was too awful to even get through the first 10 minutes, so I sift through the movies and find Confessions of a Shopaholic. I figure it probably won’t be much better, but I am on the plane for three hours and I am not in the mood to read and am not yet ready to do more journaling. It ended up being an interesting choice because the entire movie was a commentary on American consumerism. It was neither the most scathing critique nor the most entertaining, but I found it an interesting welcome home.
The main guy character tells the main woman character that ‘you are not defined by the things you buy.’ I found it intriguing that a mainstream film so blatantly critiqued consumer culture; unfortunately, the film never escapes its own critique. But I suppose few of us can. I found the young woman character interesting because she had this affinity for the act of buying. She put so much emotion and passion into the stuff that she bought that it stunted her ability to put that energy toward people and actions that were most meaningful to her. The displacement of human relations for the act of buying stuff makes it easier and easier to step away from our obligations as human beings. We can put our memories, emotions, and variety of human actions toward inanimate objects. We have control over those things—at least we think we do. We like the stories that things tell for us. We like what things like clothes and furniture say about who and what we are as people. It enables and encourages passivity. It is easier to let our stuff tell our stories for us than to delve in and tell it from a deeper place.
Caribou Coffee, Fargo: I walk in to do some work and get some coffee. When I walk up to the counter I see a brochure. The front reads, “Roastmaster’s Report. Guatemala ~El Paraiso~ Grown sustainably on the Felipe Martinez family farm, this coffee has the hallmark citrus and floral flavors of the Huehuetenango region, along with cranberry and dried cherry notes.” My heart drops. I am so much a part of this system. With my coffee addiction and café lifestyle, I have to face the confrontation. As I read about the farm and wondered how ‘sustainable’ it really is for the people working there, I keep seeing finca after finca that permeated the areas we drove through in Guatemala.
In the words of Sweet Honey and the Rock, “my hands are not clean.”
Welcome home.
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