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Guatemalan Travelogue

Trunk Show Curating Trip Nov 5 – 18, 2007

(80 Vendors & Artisans / 12 Cities / Over 1,000 textiles)

And:

Update on the project in the Panabaj refugee camp with the mudslide survivors (recipients of the ’07 Trunk Show funds)

Week One: Tuesday, Nov 6th. We're up early, 5:30, and are able to see our accommodations in the light of dawn. Jody has found us rooms in a private home. (Less than $10 a piece for our own room and a shared bath). The sunny courtyard is filled with super-sized spidery philodendrons leaves and flowers. Fuschia colored bougainvillea cascades over rooftops and garden walls. The spying eyes that watch us belong to two little boys, ages 5 & 7, sons of the caretaker who are camping in a makeshift tent in a corner of the yard. As the week progresses, these two will migrate across the yard, hauling their tarp tent and their pint-sized bedrolls from one corner to the next.

The house belongs to an American woman, Romelia Gonzales. Beset by personal tragedies, she moved to Antigua 20 years ago. She has worked with women survivors of the civil war and has taught them to tell their stories through embroidery. The embroideries are emotional and compelling, I'll buy some for the show. Romelia has produced a book, Threads Breaking the Silence: stories of the women of the CPR-Sierra from the civil war in Guatemala. (ISBN#99922-2-262-X). Romelia's introduction contains the most concise history I've read about the civil war.

We spend the rest of the day tramping to favorite vendors in the artisan market. The vendors remember us from last year and welcome us with hugs and kisses. (When you drop the kind of dough we spend, I guess you are remembered!) The three of us assume our routine: I ask for particular items; the vendor pulls them out from a tall stack, I nod yes or shake my head no; then on to the next category we're seeking and repeat the process over and over. A large pile of possibilities quickly stacks up. After a couple hours, having exhausted this vendors supply, I move on to the next stall while BJ & Jody inspect my selections for cleanliness. (BJ, the stain master, knows what stain can be removed and what stain will resist her efforts). Jody & BJ always find things I overlooked and add them to the pile, too.

Then the pricing negotiations begin. Back and forth, back and forth, on and on. T o gauge a fair value we continually cross reference what we paid for certain items last year. BJ has organized information from the '07 inventory into a thick notebook with thumb tabs. She can access how many of each variety we bought, the specific price ranges, a mean price within any category, where we bought it, and: our profit. During the buying and decision making transactions, Jody & I fire questions at her: what'd we pay for this last year? how many of these do we have? do we need another one? what do you think? BJ constantly thumbs back and forth to extract the answers. She has a tough job. By the end of the second week, the notebook will be dog eared and the cover near tatters. To this reference book she will add notes from our various meetings, business cards and ephemera. Later, on our way back home to the states during a layover, BJ will take the book out one last time. Holding it like a relic she'll proclaim: "I'm keeping this book 'till the day I die".

Back in the market, we've finally agreed on a price. BJ tucks her notebook away and reaches into her shoulder bag for a pen and self adhesive labels. Jody, the banker, pulls out a thick wad of Q from her money belt and peels off the quetzals. ($1 = Q7.5). BJ writes inventory tags on large stickers and before anything gets packed away, a large, white documentation tag is affixed to everything we buy. The vendors look on in puzzled amusement. Sometimes they try to help out as the three of us fumble with our purses, our backpacks, our money belts, our tags, and our bags of purchases from the last stall. We've each started out with a half dozen pens and at least one calculator a piece. Very quickly our pens go missing and we are borrowing one anothers calculator. However: by the end of the trip our pens have resurfaced and we will have fine-tuned our purchasing procedure. We’re performing like synchronized swimmers.

Long after dinner, back in our courtyard, we input all the purchases from the day into Jody's laptop. (Confession: data entry is so not my game. I get really really crabby and pretty soon I am banished from this task. Goodie!)

Wednesday, Nov 7th: We leave all our purchases at our Antigua 'home'. Our driver picks us up and by 8 a.m., we are heading for the fabled market of Chichicastenango located in the western highlands. We are quiet, lost in our own thoughts as we pass through the familiar countryside. Still, an undercurrent of excitement permeates the van, anticipating what we might find up in Chichi.

If there is a smooth highway anywhere in Guatemala, I have never been on it. Most of the roads we travel on are very rough and endlessly bumpy, like secondary county roads in the states. The roads cross the mountains, switching back and forth, snaking up then down the mountain. Again and again, overcrowded buses spewing thick diesel exhaust pass traffic on the wrong side of the road around a blind corner above a steep precipice. I don't want to watch- but with so many lives at risk, it is impossible to feign disinterest in the outcome of these maneuvers.

The hillsides are covered with tall pine trees. I could be in northern MN except for the wild orchids that, through the miracle of air layered propagation, grow on trees branches. The orchids have a thick mangled mass of long hairy roots: it appears as if the orchid is a malevolent force attacking the tree. Later, back in Antigua, I’ll notice entrepreneurial arborists, standing on street corners offering a dazzling display of potted blooming orchids for sale to passersby. Note to self: it is illegal to bring orchids in to the US.

Dormant volcanoes receeding in the distance on the shores of Lk Atitlan. This gives you an idea of the moutainous terrain for the marginalized farm plots and also the difficult transportation infrastructure. Those little dots by the point of land jutting into the water are fisherman in simple wooden plank boats. Photo: Jody Slocum

Under the pine trees, in the cool dappled light, coffee bushes grow reaching 10' before being pruned to a manageable height. Far below the tree tops, Campeneros with hoes slung over their shoulders and machetes in their hands disappear into the thick underbrush on well worn footpaths. They are heading for their plot of ground on impossibly steep and terraced slopes an hour or two hike up the mountain. It is not uncommon for farmers on these marginalized plots to stumble and fall to their deaths- they are farming on practically vertical terrain.

Our first stop enroute to Chichi is Najuala where their huipils are handwoven and brocaded. As soon as our driver puts the van in 'Park', a young mother instantly appears beside the van: Quieres textiles? Want some textiles? As she points to a row of houses up a steep and winding road away from town. We exchange gleeful looks- we did not think it would be this easy. Yes! We are interested in textiles and we hop out to follow her lead. Her home, under construction, is made of adobe and wood planking. She pulls out some beautiful bags knitted from coarse, handspun yarn. You can still feel the lanolin in the wool. Her curious children crowd around us. Given her poverty, her number of children, wordlessly we agree: Yes, we are going to buy these bags. We do not bargain here, we pay her the price she asks for. But we are not interested in anything else she has for sale. The bags are quite nice, a bit of a departure from our collection, but very well crafted. We agree to buy six bags. As Jody peels off a wad of Q to pay the woman, her children stand watching the stack of bills grow in their mothers palm, transfixed in wide eyed wonder.

Following a young mother & her children down a trail to their home to examine her textiles. That's me ducking and entering through the gate. BJ is right behind me. Jody is taking the photo, bringing up the rear.

We follow the mother, and all her children, in a procession line to another home nearby. More textiles, more poverty. Here in the 2nd home, there is nothing of interest except a well used bag expertly crotched from agave fiber. Se vende? Is it for sale, I ask, pointing to the bag. The woman grins at me apologetically and takes it off the hook. That's when I notice the large hole in the bottom of the bag and the woman explains: one night a rat chewed his way through this bag. Casting about for anything to buy, wanting to leave some money with this woman, I see another handknitted wool bag, similar to the bags we bought from the young mother. Se vende? Enthusiastically she says, Si, si. This is her personal bag and before she hands it over to me, she dumps her belongings onto the dirt floor.

Out on the street we find the mother and her children waiting, inviting us to yet another home. We're game. You never know what you`ll find which is precisely what makes our hunt exciting.

This last home is filthy: scrawny cats and chickens parade in and out the open doors, pecking and sniffing at the litter strewn throughout their compound. Inside the main dwelling, the sloped ceiling is low, I'm unable to stand up straight. The fire from the adobe stove has blackened all the walls and ceilings, soaking up any light that falls in from the open doorway. More litter is strewn about the windowless dirt- floored room. The only furniture is a narrow bed holding tattered blankets and a lumpy shape. A woman materializes from a shadowy corner, obviously unstable. She stares at us in vacant disinterest. From a tight bundle of cloth the matriarch who welcomed us at her gate pulls out silk cintas (belts), at least 50 years old and valuable to collectors. She has a few more valuable pieces and she understands their value: we pay fair prices. She asks: Would we like a spinning demonstration? Jody, ever resourceful, has heard about an 82 year old woman in Nahuala who is a master Ixcaco spinner. (At 82, this makes our spinner 12 yrs older than the national life expectancy rate). A frail old woman with paper-thin skin has been sitting in the sun watching us, her back resting against a mud wall. Could this grandmother be our spinner? Yes! we would like a spinning demonstration.. At the mention of a demonstration, a granddaughter hurries to place a drop spindle and a hank of combed brown cotton onto the old woman's lap. I move closer to watch. Before she picks up the spindle, she brushes my sleeve with the back of her hand in a friendly gesture. Que pais? she asks me. Feeling as if I don't want to move and break the thin thread of our tenuous connection, I hold my place and reply: Los Estados Unidos, senora. She smiles and looks down at her lap. But her hands have betrayed her, her fingers are crippled, curled in upon themselves and as useless as dry roots. She is barely able to mime how to spin yarn. We pay for our purchases, get back in the van, and resume the long trek to Chichicastenango.

Bundle of textiles a young mother pulled out and threw on the ground for us to examine. Photo: Jody Slocum

In Chichi, the hilly city is bustling with pre-market day activity. Vendors are hoisting their stands, arranging their displays. Captive chickens and turkeys cluck their discontent, poking their heads out from tight baskets; baby pigs on baling twine leashes squeal their sorrow; smoke from food stalls curl from under tarp canopies; incense from the cofradias (religious officials) fills the air. Tomorrow, when the market opens at the crack of dawn, it will be nearly impossible to move about. A haven for pick pocketers.

Thursday Nov 8: We're at the market at 6 a.m., eager to watch the place come alive. We agree on a strategy: one pass around the market, then we'll find coffee and breakfast, then right back to the market. (We've traveled together many times and have achieved a compatible traveling style).

After breakfast we head straight to our favorite vendors. As in Antiqua, we are greeted with smiles and welcoming hugs. Thomas, the vendor that sold us the San Mateo tzutes last year, was especially grateful for the photograph BJ mailed to him. He was moved that she took the trouble to follow through on her promise- something BJ did time and again. In the next few days we'll meet several people who received her photographs. Each time we meet these recipients we see, hear, and feel their appreciation. It's gratifying. It almost feels like a tiny step toward ameliorating the disastrous effect of the US's role in the 1954 coup, the coup that set the stage for Guatemala's 36 year long civil war. A tiny, tiny, tiny step.

BJ with a vendor we met during the collecting trip in '06. She took his portrait and on the '07 trip, BJ brought a framed copy to give to him as a gift- something BJ presented to vendors time and again. Her gesture won us their hearts. Photo: Jody Slocum.

Shortly after lunch we find the vendors Lynn Barnhouse discovered last year- only many, many more of them, according to Jody. These are extremely poor sellers, too poor to afford a booth or stall and therefore relegated to an out of the way alley. Most of them sit under the sun in the heat of the day, looking tired and hopeless, their children lying listless on top of their bundles of cloth. In this tight and airless space, the smell is over powering. Confession: I have a hard time in these kind of situations, I would rather not be here. But Jody moves about from group to group with her infectious bright smile and cheerful Hola!. She positively shines her light of optimism upon them and I admire her courage more than ever. She would like to buy something from each of them, but there are too many vendors. Our eyes lock and wordlessly we agree to make purchases only from those with young children. We do not bargain here, we give them what they ask for.

We found many beautiful textiles in Chichi- textiles unlike anything available elsewhere in Guat. Our Chichi purchases are among our fondest treasures so far.

Back in the van we settle in for the long return trek to Antigua. We pass through the grimy crossroad town of Chimaltenango. Traffic often backs up for miles at the approach to this crossroad. It seems all roads to anywhere in Guatemala pass through Chimaltenango so we better relax, there is no alternate route. Oh well. Jody rolls down her window, positions her camera outside the van and starts clicking away. We pass prostitutes standing in doorways. I don't want to think about their short, cruel lives. If you are wondering what happened to the songbirds in north America, well, they are captured and are offered for sale here on the streets too. I recognized several species including tanangers and orioles.

Vendors selling pet birds including orioles and scarlet tanangers on the streets of Chimaltenango. Photo: Jody Slocum.

Finally 'home' in Antigua; a late night of inputting data awaits us. (I`ve figured out how to be useful and less crabby by arranging tottering stacks of textiles in categories keeping one step ahead of BJ. It helps BJ’s organization and Jody doesn`t have to jump around from category to category within her software program. But the two of them are keeping an eye on me, I can feel it, waiting for the first sign of my impatience when they will banish me from the room).

Friday Nov 9th: Another early morning with another daily stop at the cash machine before breakfast. We are burning through our cash.

Today we look forward to the Solola market, a town high above Lk Atitlan. The traditional traje, (dress) is still worn by both men and women. It is among the most colorful clothing in all of Guatemala. We've learned there are vendors here selling ixcaco weavings (pronounced eesh-ka-ko) and we are not disappointed. Years ago, ixcaco, a natural brown colored cotton, used to grow in most garden plots. It cannot be machine spun, only by hand and therefore, the production is limited. But coffee became more profitable and soon this cotton all but disappeared. (Before our trip is over, we will have found some old huipils made from the last crops of Ixcaco 40 years ago). It's been reintroduced and Boy: it's stunningly elegant. And expensive. But we are pleased to support the effort to establish this drapey cloth that possess' a good 'hand'. The international market has not yet discovered Ixcaco. (I fantasize that Ixcaco becomes the One Thing high-end markets want from Guatemala's poor weavers. Jody intrudes on my fantasy, telling me I'm dreaming.)

The men's traditional traje (clothing) in Solola is among the most colorful in Guatemala. In this photo men carry shoulder bags- which they knit- from handspun wool and they wear village-specific wool jackets and ikat patterned pants. Photo: Jody Slocum.

Like all markets in Guatemala, the Solola market is noisy and intensely crowded. Meat vendors with their hanging slabs of beef are side by side with soap sellers who are next to apron sellers who are adjacent to broom sellers or pirated CD sellers. Confession: I do not enjoy the sight of hanging beef/pig/chicken parts or jostling with the crowds. Weak stomached, I come face to face with the beef and my cultural biases. I have to brace myself to move past the meat stalls. I fight sarcasm: yes of course the beautiful Ixcaco is going to be right next to the beef! Hellllllo? where the hell else would it be???? Oh well. Inevitably, to reach the vendor we are seeking, we will traipse right through the crowded market. And always past the butchers. Always.

A butchers stall, Solola. Judging by their village specific clothing, the woman with the ponytail is from Sololoa, the woman wearing blue, on the right, is from Santa Caterina. Photo: Jody Slocum.

By contrast, Jody walks through the market unfazed and unselfconscious, her camera held before her or beside her or over her head as she clicks away over and over and over without any thought to framing the shot or asking permission to take a portrait. We are packed like sardines jostling along in a tight impenetrable line moving toward the very center of the market. She turns to look back at me over her shoulder. With a wide grin she: says: Isn't digital photography a-mazing?

Having purchased a half dozen beautiful ixcaco throws, we leave the market, heading back to our patient driver. This time I lead the way, taking a shortcut across the slightly less crowded town square. I pass a beggar stooped on the ground, unable to walk. He is wearing rags and his bare feet are filthy, grime encrusted, his toenails haven't been cut for ages. For some reason, I will remember his toenails. Later that night, when I'm in bed too tired to sleep, I'll flash on his feet. I will think about Mother Teresa and the stories I've read about her work with the poor. One story runs through my mind like a tape and I will begin to comprehend the magnitude of her gift when she washed the feet of Delhi's untouchables.

Hours later, back in Antigua, we race to appointments with our vendors before they close. We've left questionable pieces with them, unsure if BJ could get them clean. Seeing us bent over the cloth inspecting the stain, the vendors assure us: “No problemo”. They take the cloth out of our hands and pantomime washing the cloth then point to the sun, you see? they want us to believe the stain, with a little water and a little sun will become perfectly clean. “No problemo”. So we offer this bargain: we'll return in one week. If they get the pieces clean enough (we have a flexible standard, depending on the piece) we'll buy it. In the end, of the two dozen pieces we leave behind for the vendors to wash, we'd only find 3 clean pcs.

We also met with a young woman, Virginia, from London who has lived down here for 10 or so years and is now working with a non-profit textile association called Sharing The Dream. She is a wealth of information and she is very anxious to work with us. This is the first of several appointments with textile associations, including meeting Deborah Chandler from Mayan Hands. Deborah is a rock and I am immediately respectful of what she has accomplished. Mayan Hands provides steady weaving work to over 200 rural, poor women- and transforms lives in the process. She is also very, very knowledgeable.

More market stops, drop off a ’07 trunk show catalog here and there, then back to our courtyard home for data entry. We are storing all our purchases in Jody's room and by now our bags have really piled up: Jody is only able to navigate around her room via one tiny isle. Her suitcase looks as if it has exploded, clothes lie everywhere. Between our bags of textiles and her clothes, chaos reigns. Before settling down to more data entry work, we’ve come in to Jody’s room for with a glass of wine and to marvel at the sight of all our purchases. But the disorganization drives BJ from the room, shaking her head and muttering to no one in particular: How can she find anything in that mess.

Saturday Nov 10th: As usual, we're up and breakfasted (is that a word?) by 7, heading for yet another market. This is a market we've not visited and we have no idea what to expect. If we had known how good it would pan out, we probably would have camped nearby- it was that exciting.

The Saturday Huipil Market takes place in a private courtyard in Antigua. There's not too many vendors, about a dozen, and surprisingly their goods are neatly arranged everywhere around the courtyard except on the footpaths. It is uncrowded, there are no slabs of meat in sight, loud music is not breaking my eardrums, no one is jockeying for position on the sidewalk, elbows are not punching my back. It is not frenzied --except the rhythm of my heart when I see what they are selling. Surprisingly, the vendors are not aggressive, they sit peacefully in the shade offered by the deep porticos. We assume our familiar routine: starting in one corner with one vendor, I select a pile of possibilities then Jody & BJ follow with inspections, money, and inventory tags.

A weaver from Coatzal selling her extravagently brocarded village-specific huipils & shawls. Note the 'jaguar' collar design in the huipil in the foreground. Photo: Jody Slocum.

Ninety minutes later the sun is straight above us and everyone, including the vendors, is working up a sweat. I am mid way around the courtyard when I take a break from my intense concentration and look up, suddenly aware that our buying procedure- if not the quantity of our purchases- has attracted attention from several tourists who are staring at us in amazement. A couple of them attempt to engage me in conversation. I am nothing if not focused and clearly, I have a lot of textiles to look at before my job in this market is finished. I respond politely but unapologetically I immediately return to my task. The tourists then turn to Jody & BJ, asking more questions and receive longer answers.

The quality and prices in the Huipil Market are outstanding: we buy something from every single woman. Later, as we leave this market, one of the women pulls BJ aside, patting her arm thanking her for buying something from everyone, explaining: " it was the right thing to do". It was unplanned, but, note to self: if I ever find myself in a similar situation, buy something from everyone.

Ceremonial huipil, Chichicastenango, brocaded silk on cotton groundcloth. Note the 'sun' collar design and the round 'moons' (embellished silk fabric sewn onto the groundcloth) adjacent to the sun pattern. Photo: David Husom.

We hire a cab to bring us home (too many purchases for a little tuk-tuk). Then we're off to Guat City to appointments with 3 textile associations.

The first, Proteje Ixchel, primarily sells their work through the Museo Ixchel. (www.museoixchel.org) Proteje’s mission is to produce top quality products from top quality artisans and keep regional textile traditions alive. We are very impressed with their designs and quality, and, wanting to support their work, and, knowing the money goes right to the weavers, we buy many things even though they are expensive and we won't make much of a profit. Oh well. We also leave commission work to be filled. As with Virgina (Sharing the Dream) they are eager to work with us, eager for more markets, education, and visual reference materials. The idea is to leave custom work with several groups and see how well each group is able to interpret and execute our design directives. And then compare quality and prices for a longer range project.

Finally, we met with Victor, a representative from a cooperative operating in a forested region a couple hours SE of the city. ("The City" always means: Guatemala City). Victor is late, we are just about to give up on him and return to Antigua when he pulls along side our cab in the parking lot of the artesan market. This is a first, even for us: an inspection of textiles in the trunk of a car in a parking lot. Victor (whom we immediately nickname the Teddy Bear because of his build, his warmth, his way of giving each of us an all-embracing hug the moment we meet, and, for his kind eyes) works with some of the poorest people in Guatemala. They earn less than $3 a day. The government has established a program to teach these forest dwelling residents how to use natural forest products to increase their income, rather than denude the forest as in the past. For example, they are growing mushrooms in the moist forest flora; and, they have learned to make baskets from pine needles which were, until recently, a product of no value. Liking the baskets, or liking Victor, one of the two, I order 60 baskets for the trunk show.

Pine needle baskets from the El Bosque Cooperativa, about 3 hrs SE of Guatemala City. Photo: David Husom

Long after dark we make it back to Antigua and stumble off to dinner then back 'home`. Another late night inputting data.

On Sunday, we'll head to Lake Atitlan where our pace will slow down. We are eager to see familiar faces, the women in Farmer to Farmer; to hand a catalog to their leader, Rosa, and watch the expression on her face when she opens the catalog and finds her huipil published. (If you were lucky enough to snap a catalog last year, you can see Rosa's huipil on pgs 2 & 3). I`'m also anticipating going back into the refugee camp and see how things have progressed during this past year. I've heard they are producing some wonderful textiles and I hope the quality is good enough for the trunk show. It would be very gratifying to sell their pieces. There's also news of increasing violence in the region including a half dozen murders by vigilante groups. Later, this last bit of news will impact our work.

A mother and her two daughters in Santiago- we bought her embroideries for the show. The girls are wearing a traditional cinta (narrow belt) that is woven in a painstakingly tedious tapestry technique. The belt is coiled on top of the head to perform the function of a hat. Photo: BJ Bobrowski.

We have a lot of data entry remaining, not the least of which is the 'retail accounting'. This is where BJ hold up each and every item we've bought then I estimate the selling price while Jody enters this figure into her excel program. Last year, the retail accounting was an exercise in hopeful optimism. But now, with the first trunk show behind us, we have a better understanding of the retail value of each of our purchases. This year, during our retail accounting, Jody- who was practically willing to sell the textiles at cost last year- will contradict my guesstimate and say: "Aw, we can get more for it than that. " Still, we continually "low ball" the retail estimate, and discuss how "we can massage the numbers up and down" , speaking the vernacular like old retail hands. Ha! The hope is, by any miracle of a chance, have we purchased enough items to meet our funding goal? And of course, in the back of all our minds: will enough people come to the trunk show to buy all these pieces? How can we best tell the story of the lives of the people we've met? What impact will our effort have?

Jody purchasing natural dyed throws and table runners from a weaving cooperative in San Juan La Laguna. I've forgotten who took this photo, sorry!

Week Two: We shipped home over 850 pieces totaling a thousand pounds. Double last year's inventory. From the staging area located in our cottage at the Posada de Santiago, by late Wednesday night we (read: Jody & BJ) had the textiles ready for shipping. You cannot imagine the tedium surrounding this task. Everything needed an i.d. tag affixed to the piece documenting where it was purchased; an inventory i.d. number; the price paid; and, which village it was from. We've all gotten better at identifying regions of specific textile patterns but BJ has emerged as our expert. As BJ affixed the i.d. tag to the textile, Jody calls out an inventory number which BJ scribbles onto the tag. In turn, BJ gives Jody the price, where it is from, where we purchased the piece, etc etc. Jody inputs this data into her Excel program. There is room for errors and when we (they) catch them, the flow stops and numbers are checked and rechecked. Attention paid at this end means less work once we're home. We even double check spelling errors. (Jody: how do you spell Shacool again? BJ: c-h-a-j-u-l. Me: get me out of here).

At 8 a.m. the launch Jody hired motors up to the Posada's dock. The 'captain' (a 15 year old kid), and 5 Posada grounds-workers, haul load after load from our cottage to the boat and back up the steep hill, bent double under the weight of our 29 over-sized feed-sacks full of textiles. Once loaded into the launch, we count the bags one last time. 29. Then we each cast a last look at the trees on the shoreline and out to the middle of the lake hoping to see the wind has died down. It hasn't. Oh Well. We’re in for quite a ride and we know it. We jump in the boat anyway, bracing ourselves for a half hour long back-jarring trip across Lk Atitlan's choppy waters.

Arriving in Panajachel where the export company, Cropapina, is located, young boys on summer vacation immediately surround our boat. Quieres ayuda? want some help? It's a long trek from the boat dock up the steep hill to Cropapina's waiting pickup truck and clearly, yes, we do want some help. But first we need to find the driver so Jody hops off the boat and runs up the hill. In our unspoken arrangement, I stay on the dock keeping an eye on the boat and our bags while BJ starts photographing the expedition a final time. One young boy, no bigger than the sack but eager to prove himself, hoists a heavy bag onto his back and, under the weight of the contents instantly drops to his knees. His friends tease him, playfully kicking him when he's down. Finally, Jody finds the truck driver and our sacks are loaded on to the pickup, we think we've counted them correctly, we've tipped the boys and, at last, we are off to the export office.

Arriving in Pananjachel from Santiago with all of our luggage and 29 over-sized feedsacks stuffed full of textiles. Next stop: haul everything up the hill, find the export companies truck which is supposedly waiting for us then on to the export office to begin the official paperwork & procedures. Photo: BJ Bobrowski.

It turns out the export office is located on a crowded busy street two flights up a narrow stairway. Nothing is easy. Once again, I stay with the truck watching our sacks, Jody runs up the stairs to begin the official export procedures in the office, BJ and her camera documents the procession. Again.

It requires a leap of faith to exchange 1,000 pounds of textiles for a paper receipt.

You'd think we would feel relieved to have the textiles on their way home and our job over. We're not. Walking away from the export company, holding that thin receipt, we're feeling a bit unnerved. The export company comes highly recommended but still: a thousand pounds! Oh Well.

Out of the export office and back on the streets, I am dismayed to discover I can't quit looking at textiles. For the past ten days my eyes have performed as heat seeking missiles in search of beautiful cloth. My eyes operate independent of my mind and won't stop. Even as we input data at night in our 'home', I continually evaluate and re-evaluate my decisions. They shut off only when I'm asleep. I can be standing in a 'taxi', (a mini-truck that stops and picks up passengers along the roadside) and I'll notice a fellow passengers shawl, huipil, or her cloth used to tie together a bundle of goods. Automatically I assess its desirable characteristics. I have followed women down the street offering to buy the clothes on their backs. I have purchased cloth from a woman on her way home from the market- the cloth still warm from the fresh tortillas she removed just before handing me her textile. Always looking. Always.

BJ wanders off, her camera in hand. Jody & I find a sidewalk cafe. We order tall triple lattes. Attitude adjustment. Maybe this will help. We are just about to tuck in to our frothy drinks when an ancient, barefooted, leather -skinned woman walks into the cafe. A quick glance at her huipil and I 'read' she is from Santa Caterina on Lk Atitlan. She is a street seller with scarves draped across her shoulders, beaded necklaces hang from the crook of her elbows, her fists are full of bracelets. We watch her approach the table in front of us, knowing our 'turn' is next. The young women at the first table do not acknowledge her, the manner is which they dismiss her is subtle yet unmistakable. Now she's at our table standing right beside me. Jody hands her money for a scarf, we relax a bit, thinking she will leave. She doesn't move. Instead, to free her hands, she lays her bracelets on the table beside my coffee cup. Then she places her palms on top of my head and slowly moves her hands firmly but gently over my head down to my shoulders. Repeatedly. As her hands move over my head she mutters some words. Although I am momentarily taken aback I don't want her to stop: it feels kind. Now she takes my hands in her boney but strong warm fingers, pressing them together, looking into my eyes. The sensation is at once foreign and intimate. I return her gaze. Finished with me, she moves to Jody and performs the same gesture, muttering the same words. I have come out of my surprised stupor to realize she is not speaking Spanish. Finished with Jody, she selects two bracelets and ties one to our wrists. She arranges her trinkets to leave. Steepling her fingers together, she bows to us as she backs out of the cafe.

A wandering street vendor in Panajachel with whom Jody & I shared an intimate experience.

Days later we see one another on opposite sides of a crowded street. I expect her to rush over and sell me something. Instead, she steeples her fingers together and nods to me once. Then disappears. Before I know she is gone, I realize my hands are steepled, too.

We have a wide range: museum quality pieces; pieces for collectors; pieces to transform into coverings for cushions or pillows; textiles to adorn your walls; wearable huipils; hand knitted or beaded purses and bags; hand woven scraps that sewers and quilters can snap up for "baby Q" ("baby Q" is what we've come to refer to small change for tips or handouts during our travels); children's traje (traditional clothing); even men's traje; and, the best contemporary examples of textiles produced from 5 Fair Trade associations. Within the contemporary category we have fine examples of Ixcaco throws (pronounced eesh-ka-co). These soft, nubby, natural tobacco brown to fawn colored hand-spun cotton pieces are understated elegance. I could be wrong, but I think they have a promising future in high-end niche markets. Have I mentioned that?

Two pieces from the collection: detail, ceremonial huipil from Chichicastenango, cotton brocade on cotton groundcloth; ceremonial men's pants, embroidered silk on wool, Olentenque. Photo: David Husom.

Above: an Ixcaco throw. This natural tobacco to caulk colored cotton cannot be machine spun, only by hand. It is soft and nubby, an extraordinary cloth. Photo: Midge Bolt.

Susie Glanville's Refugee Camp/Recipient of the Trunk Show '07 Funds: I met with Susie off and on over 3 days, 4 meals, and several glasses of wine. There is good news and very, very sober news to report.

First the good news: What Susie is accomplishing with the women on backstrap looms is nothing short of miraculous. Trust me: I do not use the term loosely. We can be proud of the faith - and money - we placed in her effort. Susie has also created a website, almost ready to launch. Together, she & I looked at the website-under-construction and I thought it was: perfect. It even includes a wish list for those who may be coming down from the states. Working with a Peace Corp 'systems analyst' (I think I know what that is), Susie created an Excel program that inputs data on the various textiles the project produces and tabulates the expenses & design particulars to calculate the weaver's salary. Viola. It could be extremely useful to other groups. (The idea is to Some Day pay the weavers the national daily minimum wage: Q55 - $7.33. Realistically, most weavers in rural Guat make less than $3 a day.)

In the span of one year, the fabrics the survivors have woven are the most innovative I've seen designed and produced by any contemporary group. Spectacular. And to think they are woven on a backstrap loom - a simple loom consisting of sticks and threads! Most of the other textile associations I met with hire designers to create products for their weaver members to weave. In contrast, Susie has spent the past 16 months providing her group with classes: tools for the design toolbox so-to-speak. The result: the innovative designs are coming from within the group itself. This is HUGE. Keep in mind: nearly all of the women are illiterate, most have never been to school beyond the 2nd grade. Attendance records are kept for all their classes- the women must 'sign' in to class and most use their thumbprint as signature.

Susie & I also discussed ways to spend the balance of the trunk show '07 funds. We became animated, gesticulating our excitement with heart expanding ideas that could solve immediate problems for the survivors still stuck in the refugee camps. (Some survivors have been able to relocate. But 25 months after the mudslide, the majority remain in the overcrowded camps. The conditions create frustrations and you will not be surprised to learn crime is on the increase. It's become a very dangerous place. In the light of day, Susie will only travel on the main path throughout the camp.)

It turns out that some of the people in charge of the resettlement program embezzled a million Q and have left the country. The 'free' cinder block houses will now cost the survivors $266. It may as well be $10,000- many of the women are widows, a few are disabled (like Juanita who was in the class I taught in the camp last November, and a member of Susie's junta- B.O.D.) There is no way they can come up with this figure. I wondered if we could use some of the trunk show money from last year to buy houses? We discussed the social repercussions of a housing grant, or, if the recipients should pay back the project with weavings- that way, it's more like a loan and we'd avoid jealousies. We'd also have a product to sell and keep the trunk show funds revolving. We both agreed to 'sleep on it' and resume our discussion the following day.

The Very Sobering News: Later that same night, the death squad killed a community leader in Santiago. The following day, Susie was given a copy of the death squads 'hit list' with 16 names on the list. She immediately scanned the list for her name. It wasn't on the list. But the list targets teachers and project leaders- like Susie. In addition to naming names, the list master describes what they will do to those on the list including torture, dismemberment and disembowelment. Susie knew 2 of the 16 listed. Jody knew one name: a 20+ year resident, a woman from Spain who runs a school for disabled children. The following day in Antigua, we gave Doug Spencer a copy of the list. He knew 3 people named. The intimidating results have the immediate effect of curtailing projects and of course, Susie now must become neutral. Practically invisible. The hopeful plans we envisioned Wednesday afternoon are understandably tabled.

My prayer: maybe this isn't the same escalating activity as visited upon Santiago as during the civil war. Maybe the recent killings are part of the transition of power (the Guat presidential elections were held Nov 5th, the same day we arrived). Maybe things will settle down in a few months. In Guatemala, hope springs eternal.