I arrived in the Guatemalan mountain town of Todosantos Chuchumantan hoping to improve my Spanish. Some hours after my first lesson, my teacher’s brother was shot dead by a local police officer. The dead man turned out to have been the head of a local gang – the next morning the entire town police force fled in fear of lynching. As the town began the preparations for its annual horse racing fiesta, preparations mainly involving getting fantastically drunk, the infamous Guatemalan army rolled in to keep the order. That weekend, six other people would die, and the host family I was living with would fall into crisis when the father punched his wife in the face. Todosantos was a town of welcoming, curious people, with great pride in their Indigenous Mayan traditions, surrounded by stunning mountains, and full of happy children who would shout, “Hola, Daniel!” whenever I passed their house. Despite the sometimes-terrifying events that took place, it remains my favourite place in Guatemala.
Friday, 31st October 2003: I wake to find my language teacher’s brother dead and my host family distraught at the news. The family are pure indigenous Guatemalans – the rather diminutive mother and four daughters have fantastically long blue-black hair. Everyone in Todosantos wears the same clothes – the traditional blue woven dress for the women; red trousers and white shirt with a huge red, purple or green collar for the men. They speak Spanish to me, and the Mayan alien-sounding “Mam” language to each other. The two youngest daughters, the sweet Juana (age ten) and the bubbly Melissa (age nine) are my main Spanish conversation partners. Without much apparent direction or scolding, the daughters cook meals, tend the log fired stove, wash vast amounts of clothes and blankets, sweep, wash the floors, and weave in their spare time. One magical evening, with everyone else out in the family shop, I watch Juana sit singing to herself while Melissa cooks a simple meal for about seven people.
By Friday afternoon, the three-man marimba bands have begun in earnest, as has the drinking. One of my neighbours is taking part in tomorrow’s fiesta, decked in sashes and a tall hat, he dances as much as his whisky brain will allow. He and his friends drink all night.
That night, an old man drinks himself to death and a young man dies from a knife wound – why, no one knows.
Saturday, 1st November 2003: I wake up at six am – my horse-racing neighbour is unconscious lying face down in the mud. By eight am, his friends have revived him and seated him on a horse – he is led across town to the racetrack.
The Todosantos horse race fiesta is not actually a race at all. 
There are no winners, the aim is to ride one’s horse all day back and forth along the two hundred-metre track, taking a drink at each end. At lunchtime there is a break for more drinking, then the race begins afresh in the afternoon. Already by eight am, the riders are already very drunk and many have not slept at all – as the day goes on, their eyes become mirrors and many ride swaying back in their saddle, arms outstretched at their sides. During the race, one man falls from his horse and is trampled to death – many riders finish the day proudly wounded.
That night, my friends and I go to the town’s annual fiesta disco: tourists and locals dance in a huge cold hall while a semi circle of twelve assault rifled soldiers watch impassively. Early the next morning, a man lying in the street is killed when the arriving bus runs over his sleeping head.
The remaining deaths discovered that weekend were less well documented – rumour and counter rumour were so widespread it was hard for me to know what was real. Many attendees of the fiesta were making their annual return to the town from their jobs in the United States – stories spread of old scores and inexplicably pregnant wives dealt with violently.
Monday, 3rd November: I wake to find my host family’s house turned black. The husband Augusto has drunkenly punched his wife Dominga, her face is swollen and left eye turned red.
I try to decide what to do. After taking advice from the long-term foreign residents of the town, I decide to move out, to send a message to Augusto and to avoid getting involved in any violence from him. I move out to a “Ladino” (as opposing to Indigenous) family, who drink Pepsi and power their stove with gas instead of logs. The sense of rejoining the cold West is jarring.
I had, and still have, little idea what the correct moral decision would have been in a situation like this. But I was missing the girls too much, the new family I was assigned to weren’t that keen on me – so after a few days I moved back in with Dominga and her daughters. As before, Augusto spent most nights sleeping in the family’s shop further up the hill, so I rarely saw him, but suspect it didn’t even occur to him why I’d left the house for a while.
My last week in Todosantos, I worked in the language school, doing the job of the day manager while he took a break to Lake Atitlan. I shopped among the Todosanteros for bread and light bulbs, organised a big meal for all the foreign residents, and arranged teachers and host families for any new students. It was great to interact with the ever-friendly people of the town on a deeper, less-touristy level. I would have come back to the town to do the language school job full time – the current school co-ordinator was leaving in February – but a month later discovered that they had given it to someone else, and so my travels around the world continued.
Daniel’s travels continue at http://blogs.bootsnall.com/dw
We are sorry to say that Mac is not very well,
but he is still e-mailing strong and recently sent the Beetle
a collection of Mac reminiscences about some of his travels
in 1992. Here we have thoughts and experiences on
India.
