Guatemala Mia

My last image of San Pedro was an old, old man. Probably 70, with only a handful of teeth in his head, grinning ear-to-ear at the passing bus. He had a hoe slung over one shoulder, and a worn-down machete thrust into a leather strip tied round his waist. He wore spotted pants typical of indigenous San Pedro men, a red sash, a button-down, and old leather sandals on his dirty feet. That is my Guatemala.
On the bus ride to the City, Alisha and I sat 3-across in the seat with a father-aged man who was going to Santa Clara for the festival. He struck up a conversation and we talked for more than 30 minutes about Guatemala, the U.S., our work in San Pedro, the weather, whatever came to mind. About an hour after he deboarded, a snaggle-toothed old man in flamboyantly typical garb from Solola sat down and started talking to us on more or less the same topics. He didn't know us, we didn't know him, and we were carrying on a perfectly coherent conversation in Spanish. It's not the first time that that has happened, either. People come up and talk to us all the time, after they've figured out that we're not just tourists, and are here for at least a little while. That is my Guatemala.
I've learned a lot while I've been here - about myself and my abilities, about my Mennonite culture, about my American culture, and most importantly, about Latin American, specifically Mayan, culture and history. I've learned a lot about the U.S.-Latin American interactions here. A significant number of people that we have talked to either have been to the U.S. or want to go in the future, despite the atrocious manner in which they are treated by U.S. citizens, especially considering the new (and hopefully soon-to-be-overturned) Arizona law prohibiting the aid in any way of "illegal" immigrants and allowing for blatant racial profiling of anyone who appears Hispanic or is heard speaking Spanish. What a disgrace. With a few exceptions, I have only ever been treated graciously by Guatemalan citizens. There have been times when I've been at a bus stop in the country with only the vaguest idea of where to go or when the bus will show up, and someone has kindly pointed me in the right direction, explained the route or the fare, or even hailed a bus for me. Perhaps they understand what is to be discriminated against because of their appearance, race, or telltale indigenous accent. Why can we not extend the same grace and kindness to them, strangers, neighbors, friends that they are?
After spending 12 weeks in Guatemala, going back to the U.S. will be like diving into a big bowl of Jell-o. Difficult.