Camden Town

I have to say, not doing touristy things has suited me quite well, but today in response to the eagerness and spirited demands of my younger sister, we became tourists. And...we had fun.

Big Ben, West-Minster Abbey, Royal Arts Academy, Southbank book market (LOVE), Covent Gardens, Oxford Circus, and best of all: Camden Town. Discovering the markets in Camden was finding that niche that I've been looking for since moving to London. Markets are my thing, and this one didn't disappoint. It was like wandering around Kreuzberg Berlin, feeding off the punk-ass vibe and the gothic cool. Chatting to merchants and sellers, some eager to make a sale, other happy enough just to talk and feed you story after story. This is where true art lies, within the stalls of those who make a living selling what they make. If you're good you make money. Simple as that. Unless you're years before your time and your ideas are rejected for being too avant-garde, but that is also art.

We met stone whisperer with a story for every single one of the pendants, earrings, necklaces and statues in his stall. For him it wasn't about the design of the rock, but about image hidden within its murky depths. Hold it up to the light with a little imagination and a whole story unveils. A man by the stormy seaside, a witch in the jagged mountains, two dolphins and their eternal friendship. Each stone was picked at a specific time and place to be given to a specific person under specific circumstances. Each one as unique as the next. The merchant wasn't old, late 40's perhaps, with a calm and soothing aura that would quickly become thunderous as soon as any of his stones were mistreated. Half Sioux, half Italian he travels the world collecting stories and experiences with which to feed his infinite wisdom. The world is full of cool people if you take the time to listen. It makes me sad that not many people do.

It's been a while. Britain's welcomed me back with the open arms of a banker embracing a new customer. It's good to be back. Observing, absorbing, getting back in touch with the anti-nature that is civilization. Realizing it's so easy to be absorbed by the hype of the media, new phone, new film, new tv, new underwear! Falling in love left and right with all the new actors, musicians, writers and artists who have popped up over the past year.  Feeling how detached the rest of the world is, how good Europe and the western world have it.

I was on a train today for five hours. I listened to conversations in different languages taking mental notes of patterns of code switching and creolization. It just happened. This is what I do now. I record languages for the greater good so that if one day a great natural catastrophe temporarily focuses the eye of the world on the islands of Micro-Polynesia, the deserts of Mongolia or the turtles of the Galapagos, those vocab and grammar books can be used to communicate with the natives.
http://www.hrelp.org/

Watch this space.

Blue skies, tall pine trees, large expanses of wheat and corn fields, getting lost in the woods numerous times, weekend trips to big cities, and eating so much fruit off trees that you're literally sick to your stomach; it's almost like being a kid again. I've always had a bit of a love-hate relationship with Germany - I mean let's face it, it's not as exotic as Brazil, Nepal or Vietnam - but after 20 years of summer visits, 5 world cups, 4 weddings, 2 funerals, 11 births, and countless family reunions, I can finally say that I like Germany. I guess I always have, I just haven't always been consciously aware of it.

The Great Confederacy: Watzajib Batz

It's 18:30 and I'm at home with a massive migraine feeling like I've inhaled far too much carbon-dioxide, which I have, my brain demanding intra-cerebral hydration - if only that existed. Rewind to 6:30, bright and early morning and you'll see me nervously skipping out the front door, camera in hand, feeling slightly guilty for ditching work. Fast-forward 20 minutes and we're stuck in traffic listening to Quique Villatoro drone on about what an amazing mayor he'd make. Snore. The day is bright and clear. Another 40 minutes and we're pulling into a driveway beside a wood workshop, the light-hearted notes of the marimba welcoming new arrivals. Still nervous-excited, the way you'd feel if you were about to come face to face with your life-time hero.

The music calls from behind a red solid metal gate. It lilts in the wind, twirling up towards the mango tree, its leaves joining in with the waltz. A man dressed in traditional maya suit stands behind the small opening in the gate, smiling broadly, welcoming us with an eager nod and a good douse of incense smoke to each of our cardinal points. We step from one world to the next, leaving the evils of modern life as we know it behind us, accepting the tranquility and serenity of the maya in front. As tranquil and serene as you can be when you're sacrificing chickens with your bare hands, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once inside, the city is immediately forgotten. People are rushing about, busily preparing for Watzajib Batz. Pine needles are scattered on the floor, their scent released with every step. Flowers, fruit and corn are arranged in geometric fashion, meticulously prepared as an offering to the North, South, East and West. Oranges, cloves, pine needles, candles and countless other fragrant symbols are placed carefully in what will become a fire pit. Four differently coloured candles are pressed into our hands and we're asked to kneel in reverence to mother earth. An hour later my knees and thigh aching we throw our offerings into the fire pit repeatedly and settle down in rusty fold up chairs for the sermon of Mayan wisdom. Don Apolinario talks of the importance of taking the time to appreciate traditions, of the loss the Maya culture is experiencing, of the fast-paced life that we are all a part of and the technology which is consuming us. He is bitter towards ladinos but accepting and grateful of outsider's efforts to support the Maya community. He wants to preserve ancient wisdom but it is unclear whether this knowledge is to be shared.

We kneel once more, and watch as four men and four women stand around the fire to sacrifice four hens and four roosters with their bare hands. Dogs howl, wings flap, feathers everywhere and soon the smell of burning flesh mixes with the heady scent of pine and incense. We line up to throw our final offerings and prayers into the fire pit, and back to our places to kiss the earth and meditate in silence. The ceremony continues for another hour before breaking for lunch only to resume again, but I've long since retreated to the shade to down a bottle of water.

And to get back to the theme of Guatemalan politics, everybody's favorite candidate has revised his campaign promises (in spanish):

http://www.taringa.net/comunidades/chapines/2226135/Baldizon-Promete-jajaja.html

Guatemalan Elections: A race to the death

The death toll is ever rising, so much so that even international artists are now being targeted for their ideals. Facundo Cabral, a famous Argentinian socialist singer was killed Saturday morning on his way to the airport. He was 74 years old.

Friday afternoon a helicopter flying in from Quiché, flown by Mauricio Urruela, UCN candidate for vice-presidency, crashed in Chimaltenango on its way back to Guatemala City, killing a UCN legislative candidate and a body guard. Mauricio Urruela was left in a critical condition.

Thursday evening, a bodyguard on Otto Perez Molina's (candidate for the presidency; El Patriota Party) payroll, shot a policeman in the stomach for being told to move the car waiting for the candidate's daughter because it was blocking the way for other cars. The policeman is also in the critical ward.

Tuesday morning, Luis Fernando Marroquin (Lider Party), a man running for mayor in San Jose Pinula (the outskirts of Guatemala City), was arrested for the murder of two of his competitors from the CREO and Unionista parties, and the faked attempt on his own life.

People are dropping dead left and right, and it's not just drug dealers and mareros (gang leaders) anymore, but figures of authority and innocent bystanders. It's a sad and ugly truth and people are scared. I'm kind of glad I'm leaving in two weeks.