Tales of a Female Nomad Read online

  Most of the time I am not interested in talking to people or going out. Or even joining friends—the ones who are left. Most of my nine-year social life in Los Angeles was with couples that we knew through my husband’s work. When I return from Mexico, I never hear from any of them again.

  Divorcing also marks the end of the “glamorous” events in my life. I am no longer connected to the world I was in. The strings have been cut and I’m floating, looking on from outside as an observer instead of a participant.

  As an observer, I am particularly interested in watching women, married, divorced, single. So many of them are trapped in lives they think they must live, in roles they have come to resent, with little joy and no laughter. They’ve “settled.” They’ve compromised. They’ve learned to adjust.

  Among the divorced, many are bitter, coloring their lives with resentment; others live only to meet the man who will complete them.

  I have no intention of adjusting, and I am not looking to define myself by the man I am with. The new me is feeling rebellious, looking for excitement, bursting with energy to explore. There is no way that I am going to sit around feeling sorry for myself, thinking that the only way I can enjoy life is with a man.

  With no possessions, no home, and no precedent, I am free to design a life that fits me. Best of all, I have tasted the life I want. My Mexican adventure opened me up. I want more. During my four months away, I met interesting people, I was never bored, and I laughed more than I had in years. I resolve to continue exploring the world, ignoring the they who define how people should live.

  “I’m going back to Central America,” I tell anyone who asks. The more I say it, the more I like how it sounds.

  Before I leave, I do a couple of responsible things. I set up an investment account so when the house sells, the money will have somewhere to go. And I arrange to get my own credit card, which I’ve never had before.

  Then I hire a bookkeeper and forward my mail to her. I also open a joint checking account with her so she can pay my bills and deposit my royalty checks. I pay her by the hour and trust her to keep accurate records.

  I do not ask for permission to live this new life, not from my kids, not from my parents, and not from my friends, many of whom are convinced that I’m avoiding the real world.

  I’m not interested in hearing lectures from people who seem to know better than I how I should live my life. I already know that single women of my age are not supposed to wander aimlessly around the world, hanging out with backpackers. They vacation in places where they can meet men, like on Caribbean cruises and European tours. And they stay in hotels that are “safe.” Unattached women rarely embrace their freedom. And about-to-be-divorced women like me do not renounce their possessions. Everyone has advice for me; but I’m not listening.

  One of my friends buys me a drink before I leave. Taking off like that, she says, is not psychologically healthy. “You’ve got to deal with it. You can’t run away.”

  But I’m not running away. I’m running toward . . . toward adventure, toward discovery, toward diversity. And while I was in Mexico I discovered something intriguing: Once I leave the U.S., I am not bound by the rules of my culture. And when I am a foreigner in another country, I am exempt from the local rules. This extraordinary situation means that there are no rules in my life. I am free to live by the standards and ideals and rules I create for myself.

  Guatemala

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LEARNING HOW

  For the first time in my life I am not worrying about how my behavior might reflect upon my family. My parents are a continent away in Connecticut, my husband is no longer my husband, and my kids are busy building independent lives. It’s a heady place to be for a woman who has always lived her roles appropriately and played the game by the rules. I can do whatever I want to do!

  And what I want to do is move through other worlds, learn what it is that makes us all human, and interact with people who are different from me.

  I decide to begin my new life in Guatemala. This time I leave with hope and excitement instead of tears. Mexico has shown me that the world is peopled with fascinating varieties of human beings. And I am convinced that most of them are just as eager to meet me as I am to meet them.

  I pack everything I own: two pairs of pants, one skirt, four T-shirts. A sweater. Underwear. A bathing suit. Toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, sunblock, insect repellant, sneakers, and four plastic bags. I put in my Spanish dictionary, the Lonely Planet guide to Guatemala, a novel to read and trade, a Swiss Army knife, and a sleeping bag. And finally, I pack two empty spiral notebooks, some ballpoint pens, and the smallest secondhand manual typewriter I can find. I’ve given everything else away.

  A friend gives me a threadbare (as requested) face towel that can fit in a small space and wash and dry easily.

  I’ve decided to go to the colonial town of Antigua, a popular stopover on the backpacker trail. But this time I’m not plugging into the backpacker network; I’m planning to settle in and become part of the expatriot community, which is made up, I’m told, mostly of Americans.

  On the plane, I am overwhelmed with doubt for the first time since I made my decision to live an alternative life. Images of being alone and friendless rush into my head. Do I really believe what I’ve been telling myself about what makes me happy? Maybe there are fundamental reasons why people don’t go off permanently adventuring.

  During the five-hour flight, I struggle to convince myself that I have made the right decision; and then, as the plane nears Guatemala City, the pilot announces that the airport is backed up because of bad weather. We will have to circle for half an hour. A bad sign, I think, feeling uncharacteristically superstitious.

  And then I look out the window. The plane is surrounded by rainbows, bright, sparkling, full-color rainbows against a sky full of clouds. Four, five, maybe six rainbows are arcing on all sides of us.

  We circle out of the rainbows and fly around, and then they are back, these spectacular symbols of joy and harmony and peace. What a fabulous sign that my new convenant with life is the right decision.

  Tucked into a valley forty-five kilometers from Guatemala City, Antigua is a charming colonial town surrounded by three volcanoes. The streets are cobblestone; the houses and public buildings, colonial; and the central plaza, with its fountains, shade trees, and wooden benches is designed for people watching.

  Within a few hours of my arrival in Antigua, I sign up for Spanish classes and move in with a family recommended by the school. The family, who are instructed to speak only Spanish to me, consists of two teenage children and a couple in their early forties. When I am introduced, the kids smile politely, but they do not talk to me. Elena, the mother, asks me a few questions, tells me that dinner is at seven o’clock, and returns to her housework. My room has a bed, a chest, and a desk.

  I unpack and dig out an address. When I was in Los Angeles, a friend told me about a Frenchwoman, Brigitte, who is working to set up a day house for street kids in Guatemala City. She and her staff live in Antigua. I’m hoping she’ll let me be a part of the project. One of the things I missed most in my L.A. life was a hands-on, face-to-face involvement in helping people. As a teenager in Connecticut, a college student in Massachusetts, and a young mother in New York, I spent many hours volunteering in orphanages, mental institutions, city beaches, public schools. Somehow, I never got it together to volunteer in L.A.

  When Brigitte hears I’m a writer, she welcomes me warmly. She has been looking for someone to help her write a proposal in search of additional funding. I join the team: Brigitte, the Frenchwoman, who has already raised enough money to buy a house in the central part of Guatemala City; Amy, a British woman who has been working with Brigitte for several years. And Gary, a seventeen-year-old American who recently signed on; he’s a hard worker, bright, and probably a runaway.

  The day I make contact with Brigitte, she is taking some people to see the scene in the central city, kids sniffi
ng glue hidden in paper bags, kids sleeping in the gutter, other kids begging. They are the homeless, the rejected, the castaways. Brigitte’s idea is to give them a place they can go during the day, with a toilet, a shower, a place to sit, and some lunch. I am looking forward to working with the kids and ecstatic to be a part of the project. This is it; this is what I’ve been needing and wanting. Even before I begin, I feel fulfilled.

  My first assignment is to write the proposal. I’d rather be wandering the streets talking to kids, but I take the job seriously. After nearly two weeks of intense writing, the proposal is finished. Brigitte is pleased with my work and she invites me to join the team in the city. The house is nearly ready, but it needs scrubbing and painting and patching.

  I don’t see much of Brigitte during the days of “housework”; she is off being political and soliciting support from the local officials. But her energy infuses all of us as we sweep and wash and fill in cracks in the walls.

  And as we work, we talk and sing and share our life stories. Each day I feel closer to Amy and Gary. Often we eat together; and at night we sit around talking. I cannot believe how lucky I am to be a part of this project. It’s a perfect fit. I walk around smiling. Brigitte comments one day that my walk has a new bounce.

  Somewhere toward the end of the spackling and scrubbing, I make a quick trip to the United States for a family event. I am radiating with joy as I tell everyone that I have found the meaning of life and it’s in giving and sharing and hands-on helping. I am bursting with enthusiasm; and I haven’t even begun working with the street kids.

  When the house is ready, Brigitte plans an open house for city officials, local donors, and an assortment of invited guests, mostly Guatemalans. I buy a simple blue dress, a pair of silver earrings, and black leather sandals. I am heart-pounding excited to be a part of it all.

  I arrive at Brigitte’s house in Antigua ten minutes before we are to leave for the city. Gary and Amy are in the living room.

  “Rita, I have to talk to you,” says Amy, taking me aside. There is something about her eyes that tells me this is not going to be good news.

  “Brigitte has decided that there are too many gringos involved in this project. She feels the local officials will be put off if they see so many foreigners. She does not want you to attend the open house.”

  I am disappointed, but I understand. It’s probably true that this invited crowd of Guatemalan officials and moneyed society people would be more receptive if there were more Guatemalans than gringos in the group. Brigitte has recently hired two local women.

  “OK,” I say. “I can wait until tomorrow.” The next day the doors will open for the kids. “I’m much more interested in the kids than the officials anyway. What time are we leaving in the morning?”

  “I haven’t finished,” says Amy. “Brigitte doesn’t want you on the project at all. I’m sorry.”

  I cannot believe what I am hearing. This can’t be happening. Just like that, I have been discarded. No apology. No thank you. No effort to be gentle. The tears well up in my eyes and I feel as though I am going to faint. I turn and walk home in a daze. That is the last I ever see of Amy or Brigitte or Gary.

  The minute I enter my room, I begin to sob. I cannot stop. I do not come out of my room for dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch.

  My hostess is worried. She knocks on my door and I tell her I’m OK. I am not feeling well and want to rest. No, I don’t want to eat, thank you.

  Actually, I am not OK. I have been working on this project for more than two months. It has filled every minute of my time in Guatemala. It has also filled my psyche. I love Brigitte and Amy and Gary; and the project has given new meaning to my life. I also know how good I am with kids. They haven’t even seen that part of me. I am devastated.

  When I recover enough to reflect on what happened, I see Brigitte’s side of it. There is something about a preponderance of foreigners that reeks of colonialism and sends out a message of superiority. Of course it is better to have a staff of Guatemalans. I do understand. But her way of telling me, and her timing, were painfully insensitive. Over the next years I will meet other people whose lives are devoted to great causes but whose sensitivity to individuals, including their families, is defective. I applaud their work and their commitment, but after my Brigitte experience, I am wary of their friendship.

  When I am ready to join the world again, I decide to rent an apartment for six months. I check out the bulletin boards in the center of town and put a deposit on a great two-bedroom place. Doña Lina, the owner, a wealthy Guatemalan woman of Spanish extraction whose family has owned the house for generations, lives with her husband in the back part of the property; there is a central courtyard between us. Doña Lina is a small woman but she stands tall; her presence is a bit haughty. She promises me hot water and quiet.

  I carry my bags over and move in. Now I need some friends. I’m going back to my initial plan of making friends in the ex-pat community. There are several dozen ex-Americans who own homes and businesses in Antigua. I haven’t met them, but I know they are here; I’ve seen them congregating in Doña Luisa’s restaurant for breakfast.

  Doña Luisa’s is two blocks from the main plaza. The restaurant is in the covered courtyard of an old colonial mansion. The day after I move into my own place, I arrive early at Doña Luisa’s for breakfast and take a seat near the door, where everyone who comes in or out has to pass by my table. I want to be noticed.

  I sit without a newspaper or a book and people-watch, nodding and smiling (a small smile accompanied by a short nod) at anyone who looks in my direction. The table for eight in the middle of the room is where the in-group sits. They arrive one by one and greet each other like old friends. I eat my scrambled eggs and toast and sip the wonderful, rich coffee and wonder if I will be sitting with them a week or so from now. That’s my plan. Step number one is to get them to notice me, so I sit at my table for more than an hour with a friendly expression on my face.

  The next day I take the same table and smile the same smile, this time with a hint of greater familiarity, justified by the fact that I’d seen them the day before and I know they saw me.

  Day three I say, “Hi.” And I get nods and Hi’s back. By now they must be wondering who I am.

  Finally, on the fourth day, a chunky fiftyish guy with a big black beard asks me where I’m from. I tell him Los Angeles and ask him how long he’s been here. Years, he answers.

  “How long are you in Antigua for?” he asks.

  “I’ve just rented an apartment for six months, maybe a year.” Then, with a little laugh, I ask, “Does that qualify me to join your table? I’d love to meet some of the locals.”

  “Sure,” he says. And I’m in.

  Most of the ex-pats in this group are Americans. One woman owns a successful art gallery on the main square, with fine paintings, assorted crafts, and books. Her taste is exquisite and the shop is thriving. The fellow with the beard collects, preserves, and sells butterflies to museums and anyone else who wants a framed, glassed-in butterfly collection.

  I am invited to visit the greenhouse of a retired doctor and his wife. The glass house is hot, the smell is earthy, and dozens of exquisite orchids fill the tables and hang from beams. Their daughter, an adult, is also living in town; she is coming off of a broken marriage and has been living in Antigua for nearly a year with her son. She and I become friends.

  They are all living well. Some of them have cooks, cleaners, drivers, and women who do laundry. The staff-people are “servants,” which is one of those words one doesn’t use in the U.S. any more. Here in Guatemala, I am told, the servants are happy to have the jobs, even though the salaries are small. The ex-pats are living in luxury on next to nothing.

  Over the next months, I have an occasional dinner in an ex-pat home; and at least twice a week, I join the flexible group in Doña Luisa’s for breakfast.

  The ex-pat lives are very much in order. They pay someone to go to immigration in the city to
renew their visas, they take a monthly deworming pill, not even bothering to check to see if they need it, and they entertain elegantly, their servants cooking and cleaning up after the party.

  Many ex-pats have their own cars, their own clubs, their own pools. And most of them are aggressively anticommunist. I avoid conversations about Nicaragua and the Sandinistas.

  One Saturday I meet an ex-pat from Guatemala City when he buys a handwoven fabric from María, a young indigenous woman who sells weavings on the street. María is gorgeous and one of the best sellers in town. The long shiny braid, the flirty dark eyes, the hint of a great body under her boxy huipil blouse, and her fearlessness in the face of foreigners are the keys to her success. Every day I stop by her spot near Doña Luisa’s and we talk.

  That Saturday morning when I come to say hello, she is holding out a beautiful red, yellow, and black weaving to an American man. He is looking for a tablecloth. I help her by taking one end.

  “It’s good quality,” I tell him. “María comes from a family of weavers. Five sisters and their mother. Their work is the best.”

  I hold María’s baby, Diana, while she negotiates a price. When they are finished, buyer and seller are both smiling.

  María invites me to Diana’s first birthday party. Her family lives in San Antonio Aguas Calientes, a village in the hills about fifteen kilometers out of town. I have been there three times to share celebrations. I am honored by their invitations.

  “Can I come early and help?”

  “Sure,” says María. And she quickly disappears into a hard sell with a couple who are walking toward her.

  “A cup of coffee?” the man says to me as he slips the tablecloth into his backpack. Why not?

  Eric is in his early forties, a Warren Beatty look-alike with a southern drawl. He lives in Guatemala City, but he’s spending the weekend at one of the better hotels in Antigua. We have coffee in his hotel. After coffee, he invites me to join him on a trip to Chichicastenango the next day.