Over the past few months, I've learned a whole lot about wedding to-dos and taboos. From an anthropological perspective, it's interesting to pick apart the traditions - the veil, the white dress, a father giving his daughter away, the size of the engagement ring and wedding. But for the most part, I see most of these traditions as cultural survivals - non-functional practices that once had a purpose in past society. I mean, look at white maternity wedding dresses - need I say more? But regardless of function, weddings are just something you have to do.
I must admit that I'm not a big fan of wedding planning. I've never been one of those girls who dreams of her wedding day - and certainly not about a dress, flowers, or table settings. Growing up with two brothers, I spent a lot of my childhood in the woods building forts and making mud-pies, or playing dinosaurs vs. transformers (or reaching potatoes vs. frogberries). I spent the past two weeks excavating the ruins of an 18th century mansion - with my bare (ok, sometimes gloved) hands, one bucket of rubble at a time. For the longest time, I hated the idea of being feminine. If someone said I'd make a good housewife all they would receive in return was the classic Laura scowl.
At some point in college I came to terms with being a woman. It had nothing to do with wearing pink, shopping for bras, or putting on makeup and everything to do with loving, caring, and giving of myself in a uniquely feminine way. I love to cook, bake, and host small gathering with friends. I love to take care of people, listening to their woes and sharing in their joys. I am ecstatic about marrying Paul and God willing, having children in a few years. To me, this is what it means to be woman - though I recognize that to each woman, femininity means something a little different.
If only everyone else understood. Dresses, flowers, and table settings - that one day - are all ephemeral. I have a good man who loves me, and on our wedding day we will make promises to each other and to God. That's what matters. That's what I'm excited about. That's what I'll plan for.
Some of the other students from CIRMA really wanted to visit a Macadamia nut farm just outside the Ciudad Viejo.I thought, ok, this is better than doing homework, I’ll go.We took a taxi from the catedral – I think we were all a little afraid that we wouldn’t survive the ride in such a beat-up car, in a city with no clear (at least to us) right of way.We made it there – at the entrance to the driveway there was a sign – “Valhalla” with a little Viking hat.You know, the kind the ‘fat lady’ wears when she sings.
Our driver dropped us off and then led us into the main area, by a sign which read, “Welcome to Valhalla – Where every day is Earth day/Aquí cada día es día de la tierra.” I thought to myself, wow, these are real hippies.We met the wife of the ex-pat who owns the finca.She told us all about the farm – three hundred unique (not grafted) trees, completely organic with no pesticides – and showed us around, offering us samples of nuts and the products they make with them.They use every part of the nut and shell for products, mulch, and fertilizer.They also donate new trees to indigenous communities to help them to be sustainable eat healthily.It was an eye-opener to see real sustainable agriculture in progress, by such good-hearted people.
We met her husband inside – an older man with a fire company hat from the states, wearing a striped sweater and khakis.He introduced himself with a “you are home,” accompanied by a barrage of the most lewd jokes I have ever heard, one after the other.We finally went out (i.e. to me, escaped) to the “restaurant” – a couple tables under the trees – to eat some Macadamia nut pancakes and drink some rosa de jamaica (a popular drink made with hibiscus flowers).The ex-pat joined us with his breakfast (it was noon) and jokes (that I’m sure made me blush beet red), and sat with us for about two hours.Over these two hours, we heard much of his life’s story – how a seventy-year old man from Frisco ended up growing macadamia nuts in Guatemala.
You know Jack Kerouac?Lorenzo’s narrative reminded me of reading On the Road, with stories about “Susan” (don’t ask), growing weed (don’t ask), lots of sex (please don’t ask), working as a firefighter, living in nature, God and farting, the future, and love.While I fully intend to forget quite a few – many of this man’s stories will follow me wherever I go.He faced death so many times. Lorenzo figured the “Old Man” wanted him to be alive to do something.As his wife told us, “Some people, in their old age, sit around and watch TV.We wanted to give back.”They are quite a couple.They fit, they complete each other.Lorenzo described himself as mal creado, “badly raised”, but said his wife still thinks he’s a good guy.I think I can understand, more now than ever.
Despite Lorenzo’s advice that we should all just buy land in Cobán and grow blueberries, accompanied by his predictions of apocalypse and survival that freaked me out as badly as history channel shows on Nostradamus when I was ten, I still look forward to going home when my semester is over.He left the US because it is so messed up.I will go back and remain there, because it is so messed up.And, you know, if the end of the world comes – that’s cool.There’s this guy and his dad I’d really like to meet.
On the wall of one of the buildings was a plaque with the Desiderata, one of my favorite prayers.Seeing it there somehow made things click for me.I respect and admire Lorenzo and his wife for all they are doing.They are good people.
We left with a hug goodbye, and an invitation to return anytime to Valhalla.Valhalla: the heaven of the Vikings – not just St. Peter, the pearly gates, and people with harps – but one full of girls, drinking, and partying.You know, I think he’s got it half right.
