Don't Be an Elbow -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm becoming accustomed to a good many things. The sound of oranges falling onto my tent in the middle of the night. 

thump

roll

kerplunk

(I know they're oranges because my tent is under an orange tree. And I see oranges on the ground in the morning. Reasoning at its finest)

The sound of lizards scampering across my tent int he middle of the night. 

skitter

pitter

whoosh

(I don't actually know that they're lizards. I'm just hoping they're lizards. And not giant scorpions. Or enormous spiders. Or...)

The sound of fireworks that sound like cannons going off at three in the morning. 

BOOM

KABOOM

What the fuck? Of all hours they could set off a firework/cannon... why three in the morning? WHY? 

Now I sleep through the three am boom kaboom. 

I've grown resigned to the odd black scorpion which slithers across the table or under the blue bench cushions. Not that I don't lift the cushions before I sit to double check. Or shake out my sheets at night. Twice. 

I've gotten used to all the bizarre hippie ceremonies in which I occasionally (and quizzically) participate. Like cacao plus ecstatic dance. 

Kayla is the goddess of cacao.

I do not enjoy ecstatic dance. I do not enjoy it one tiny bit, although I appreciate and respect the idea behind it (people enjoying the freedom of movement in their bodies). But I dislike the music, the claustrophobic element (TOO. MANY. HIPPIES), and the fact that many of the dancers just aren't aware of those around them. Because they're not supposed to be. Which is why some people blissfully take up all the available space doing yoga poses on the floor while other people hardly have enough room to half-heartedly wiggle their shoulders.

But I like to take pictures, so with permission from my manager, I snapped a few photos of the ceremony on Sunday.

"It's so not cool to take pictures during an ecstatic dance," one of the head hippies chided me. After my fifth photo. "No cameras allowed here," he continued with such aloof condescension that my middle finger had a hard time staying connected to the others.

But it managed. Barely.

"I work here," I stood my ground. "My manager asked for photos for the facebook page."

Head hippie caught sight of the owner and rushed down to talk with her. About the inappropriate volunteer photographer.

This is one reason I guess I can't be a hippie. I don't think I'm intense enough. Which is saying something. I've never been accused of having an insipid personality

I decided to avoid further confrontation and to abandon the ecstatic dance, heading back to the cafe area to help Nela and Michelle make Bliss Balls. 

Bliss Ball Recipe:

Roasted Cacao (a lot)
Peanuts (even more)
Cashews (a bit less)
Honey (... I like more than is necessary)
Cooked plantains (a couple)
Cinnamon, cayenne, salt
Coconut shavings (an ABUNDANCE)
Orange extract (if you're feeling adventurous)

(Nele approves of this recipe)

Grind everything to bits using the grinder bike. In shifts, if necessary (it's always necessary for me). If possible, present blending as a fun activity and trick guests into doing the work for you.

In other, less hippie (and less delicious) news, I've been taking Spanish classes with Gigi. We've learned articles, pronouns, possessives, a few objects, and body parts (and by "learned," I mean that I've written them all down). 

My favorite Spanish revelation is that if you want to tell someone "don't be stingy!" you say, "no seas codo!" 

Which literally translates into, "Don't be an elbow!" 

No one knows why. 

But on my way to Gigi's house the other day, I ambled through a dirty alley and past a mother with two young boys. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the mother look at my backpack and then gesture to the boy closest to me. Instinctively, I drew my backpack to my side and rested my left arm across the zippers. Then I glanced back at the boy. He stood still, looking confused. Then walked back to his mother. 

Did that mother just tell her son to rob me? 

"I think a kid tried to go for my backpack today," I confided in Gigi at our lesson. "I don't want to assume or blow it out of proportion, but... but it felt weird. What do you think?" I asked, after telling her the full story. 

"Yes, you have to be careful here," Gigi nodded knowingly. "A friend of mine was talking to small children, some of them distracted her while one stole everything from her bag." 

God. I'm going to have a hard time trusting munchkins here. I hate that.

In the spirit of team bonding, we had Classy Lady's Night the other evening. Wherein we lit candles (moths promptly flew into the flames and sizzled to a very classy death), drank shitty boxed wine, ate black olives out of a can, and watched the first episode of WestWorld.

(Shut up, you wish you were as classy as us)

This is what I'd hoped for, I thought as I contentedly sipped my glass of gross wine and curled up on the mattress with Nele and Rachel. While keeping my eyes peeled for scorpions. Of course.

And for my final bit of news, I seem to have become a working artist.  As in, I paint and people buy my paintings. It's mind-boggling to me.

But it makes me so perfectly happy. To create something that people love enough that they want to purchase. Makes me feel like my silly little paintings can have an impact.

Makes me feel like maybe, someday, I can make a life and a living out of art. And that... that would be a life I'd love to live.