Some intentional puddle-jumping

One of the things that's been a blessing and a curse so far has been what I'll call CUIDADO. I don't leave the hostel for one of IGA's evening classes without a "Con cuidado, Valeria," and when a fellow teacher accompanied me to buy a cell phone, she made clear that my role in the process only required that I hold onto her arm and not speak spanish because it would give me away as a rich American, obviously. In Guatemala City, my IGA colleagues, as well as a pleading hotel staff, forbade me to take white taxis, leaving me with green and yellow taxis as my two options. The other day, after I observed a class across town here in Xela, I asked one of the other teachers his advice on the quickest route home. He offered a helpful, directive response but, faithfully, didn't leave me without a, "And if someone asks you where you're going, you just keep walking and don't answer."

Now, by no means do I intend for my sarcasm here to demean the great blessing its been to have new friends as well as strangers looking out for me, the "blonde one." (Am I a blonde?) But the curse of it all is that it's planted a seed of fear that, while probably very beneficial, sometimes annoys and even embarrasses me. Yesterday, I was speaking with one of the hostel staff members, Julio, who is around my age and works two jobs. He manages the hostel Friday, Saturday, and Sunday and runs a shop Monday through Thursday.

Me: "Julio, dónde está tu tienda?"

Julio: "En La Democracia."

In my head: Oh no. Not in La Democracia!

This reaction has been shaped by the many warnings I've had to avoid trekking though La Democracia, an extremely large outdoor street market in the city. I even remember our leaders cautioning us about this when I was here for my internship two years ago. Looks like gringos are still getting the same message. While undoubtedly well-intentioned, is this the message we should be receiving and then spitting back out?

Quite honestly, I've walked through that very market every single day on my way to IGA's second location for its high school and scholarship program classes, and it's easily one of the best parts of my day. The hodge-podge of smells, some more malodorous than others, is inexplicably interesting to me: Tamales mmm...car exhaust, cough cough...a woman's perfume, slightly familiar...dog _______, ew, hold my breath. And the people! It feels like everyone and their mom in Xela is there buying, selling, or just passing through. It feels like hard work, tired hands and feet, and hope for a better future. It feels like home.

So, back to Julio. If I were to actually share with him my initial perception of the market's reputation as a dangerous place where foreigners shouldn't dare go, I'd be slapping his 9am-7pm job #2 in the face. And this is a young man who had the courtesy to advise me on the best hours to go to the gym, should I join one, so that I might avoid trouble from guys "with attitudes." Should I walk through the market with my backpack unzipped and my purse overflowing with quetzales, Guatemala's currency? Absolutely not. Should I avoid the market like a huge puddle I'd rather not step in? I think absolutely not. I'm getting my feet wet.