Kids + Motorcycles > Religion + Crying

I moved! I'm now living in San Miguel, across a narrow stretch of lake from Flores. Instead of riding a bus for an hour to get to work, I ride a boat for two minutes. I also have my own room (complete with Pokemon curtains and Spiderman sheets), my own bathroom and a gorgeous lake view I'm very willing to share with the Australian couple staying across the hall. I'll put together some pictures of my new home this weekend, when I have time to explore the peninsula. I hear there's a beach, and a watchtower in a tree, and a small mayan site!

That, though, is for another day. I still have stories about San José to tell, before they fade too far back into the early days of my trip. I spent my last weekend hanging out with Elma, Rudy and their family. They were a very kind host family, and they made an effort to include me, so I made an effort to spend some time with them. Saturday, I heard there was a wedding, and Elma invited me to the reception that night. This was fantastic news - I love weddings, they're always a good party, and I was very excited to see how another culture celebrates them. The whole family got dressed up (I put on the tie I had brought, "just in case I found myself in a situation where I would need a tie" - talk about vindication, eh?) and we headed down into town. Well, unfortunately, I misunderstood something, because while there was a wedding reception party that afternoon, we were not attending it. We were going to visit the mother of the bride, and eat chicken soup. It was delicious chicken soup, and I practiced my best spanish culinary complements, to hide my disappointment at the lack of wedding. After a half hour of pleasantries over soup, we took our leave, and my family went to church.

There are two churches in San José - the large Catholic Church (the Guatemalan mixture of Catholacism with indigenous Mayan traditions is the predominant religion in Petén) and and a small Evangelical Culto (means worship, but also cult). Rudy and his brothers run the little Evangelical Iglesia de Paz, and I had gone to the service the last Sunday. It had lasted for three hours, and the principle belief I had picked up was that there's no such thing as going overboard when it comes to praising god. I woke to Rudy playing praise-the-lord music at 7am on sunday morning, at a level of volume usually reserved for clubs on friday night. The music continued throughout the Sunday service, with members of the congregation getting up to sing, some powerfully, and some with a stubborn determination that reminded me of the methodist church I attended in my youth. Regardless of talent, they all had stamina. If you got up to sing, you were up there for ten minutes, minimum. Rudy, a barrel-chested man, sang for 22 minutes, the congregation clapping along with every beat.

For the past week, I had begged off invitations to nightly services in fear of similar lengths, but now I was trapped, dressed up and following them into the church. I was asking Elma were the bathroom was as an excuse to step outside within ten minutes. Saturday was the time for the praise-jesus-shouting-to-cast-out-the-devil-people-sobbing-on-the-floor worship. They formed a line, and Rudy, tears filling his eyes, his voice breaking, shouted their faces, imploring god for the forgiveness of this lost, sinful soul. There's something horribly disconcerting about a body, stretched out in front of an alter, shaking as the person sobs. For me, the sight provoked feelings of fear and sorrow, a sense of something gone terribly wrong.

It was very strange, having this side of the family revealed just before I left them. The timing, combined with the fact that this sort of communal religious intensity is very unappealing to me, made it seem like the whole thing had been some sort of secret, or that I was leaving because of it, which of course wasn't true. Nonetheless, the uncomfortable feeling was there. I hid outside with the children for the rest of the service.

I had lifted my camera once inside the church, and everyone had looked at me, immediately. I never lifted it again, though I would have loved to put a lens between myself and that scene. Outside, I found a much more receptive audience.

One kid muttered something about how some other kid wanted to have his picture taken. That other kid hotly denied any such impertinent desire, but as soon as I turned my camera on, every one of them leapt into poses, climbing on the motorcycle, the stairs, each other! All grinning, all throwing up bunny ears, all insisting they see each picture immediately after it was taken. I had a great time with them.

Rudy's nephew, Emiliano (the eight-year-old space cadet in the yellow shirt) was my best buddy. He was the one who would sneak up under my window while I was writing and whisper "hola" quietly until I looked out to see what was going on. Then we'd talk abut his broken remote control helicopter (he could tell me which broken parts kept it from flying), or what sorts of machines I couldn't drive. Hanging out in front of the church, he made me explain the function of every single button on my

camera, something I was pretty happy to try to

do. I even took a shot at explaining aperture and shutter speed. The next day I let him take a picture of me with my camera, one of the first of me down here - which came out great! What a champ. When I left I gave him a high five, and he asked for a hug "¿Un abrazo, amigo?".

My first night in San Miguel, I watched the lights of Flores shine across the lake, and I felt incredibly excited about my new, independent life. Still, it's nice to know that I can go back and visit them (just not on a saturday night) and catch up with Emiliano and the rest.