Pura Marquense

During our sixth weekend in Guatemala we drove up with Silver’s abuelita to the town she is originally from. Located up in the mountains north of Xela, San Marcos is Guatemala’s New England. To illustrate, when we stayed in Panajachel, we met the woman who owned the hotel (and a handful of other hotels besides, and a coffee plantation, and a home in the capital just as a status symbol, even though she hates that city), and when she found out that Silver has family in San Marcos she immediately asked for his family names. She rattled off a few of his relatives, explaining that everyone there knows each other. Not that the town is small, it’s just a Guatemalan networking/gold digging paradise. Having the name Maldonado isn’t quite like being a Kennedy, but that’s what I’m getting at.

We drove up on Saturday and visited Silver’s great-aunt/tía and great-uncles/tíos. His tía Eli has a bar/restaurant/house right across the street from the football stadium, with field views from her second-floor veranda. I didn't get to check out the third floor (rooftop?) view, but it must be good, based on this:



Tía Eli is also an incredible cook, with a strong preference for Mexican cuisine, so we had lunch with her and sampled her jalapeños rellenos and chorizo. The varied spread was perfectly complimented by delectable blue corn tortillas, a more-than-worthwhile regional treat to be sure.

We spent time chatting and visiting with tía Eli and tíos Eliseo, Luis and Pedro. Every home had some provisions to offer, beginning with lunch, and then coffee and sweet bread, and last some fantastic dried, candied lime-ish fruit. We needed the energy, because San Marcos is a cold, cold place. My poor toes were frozen. I can’t figure out why they don’t all have fireplaces.

Everyone was incredibly friendly, and more than once people assumed that I was Guatemalan/Latina! My Spanish was on it’s A-game this weekend, but it probably helped though that Guatemala follows the global theme of light skin = upper class. That is, many of this region’s inhabitants are fairer-skinned people, unlike rural La Maquina, where I stand out in a crowd.

Silver’s relatives were all wonderful though, and I couldn’t help but wonder how excellent my Spanish would’ve been by now if we were staying there instead of here, where I scarcely converse with anyone but Sam via Skype and Silver.

In any case, Sunday morning we ate breakfast with tía Eli again, toured a bit of the town, and bought me a jersey, because we spent the afternoon across the street watching the Marquense football team beat Xela—supposedly a hot team this year—2-1. The game was a lot of fun! The whole family was really, really excited to see me in the jersey, proudly exclaiming, "¡Pura Marquense!" Tía Eli even informed me that she, too, has a 24-year-old son, if I'm interested.





We ate lunch with her again, but this time she grilled—inside the house?—and I got to try the San Marcos softball-sized avocados that Silver has raved about for months. They lived up to the hype, and are actually softball-sized, though I had been skeptical.

Before we headed back to La Maquina, we stopped by to visit one of abuelita’s nieces and her husband. I had assumed that it was her nephew and his wife, as had Silver, but that’s not the case; Mario just happens to be a remarkably friendly and affectionate person.

It was a really nice—and really cold—weekend. Back in La Maquina, the cold has left me with a lot of congestion, a productive cough, and an under-pressure feeling in my lungs. I’m taking some kind of medicine that tastes too good to be real, but we’ll see. Here’s hoping I don’t spend the last weeks of this excursion with pneumonia!

PS: On our way to San Marcos we drove through Xela and at some point passed by a truck pulling a trailer:

Yes, that is a cage containing a pair of tigers. Some of these things here just don’t happen back in the States…