thunder storm dreams

on the shores of Lago de Izabal

Over caldo de pescada (fish broth) brewed by Dona Carla, we negotiated our necessities to go out onto the lake the following morning. The demeanour of el pescador Don J provided a sense of trust, while his expertise and adeptability provided an indifference to our preoccupations of being eaten alive by mosquitos, spiders, scorpions, or whomever we might encounter in the habitat barrowed for the night. But something in the collective us knew a beauty untold awaits. Such untold beauty I attempt to account it here.

Slept a night, interrupted by motorcycles and music bumping from speakers at the abandoned ferry launch turned mid-night hang out neighboring the room we stayed. But, graciously, I woke al concierto de los pájaros.

The morning lingered, converted to Guatemalteca tempo of casual starts and stops, allowing a fluid passing that relieves the pressure of productive pace which I am so accustomed. Echoing insights with Styvens, my new companion from the capital, and informing ourselves with the Nahual de día, a pot and a half of coffee drained, we set out to obtain the coming day’s provisions.

Daaamn it’s hot. And my own sense of displacement in an unfamiliar place (I sense I seem foreign), adds bewilderment to the already thick air. Though I’m laughing a lot, confiding in Styvens that the heat makes me feel some type of high.

Gathering, gathering from the available resources accumulated in the central streets of an impoverished town… The final ingredient; aguacate, los estabamos buscando. A destination which felt to be a long mile away, we are directed to the main market, displaying produce under a shaded stall that frames an entrance into open hallways decorated with carved meats, bags of toasted tortillas, bundles of herbs, and, on a stool in the very back, aguacate! Comprimos seis por quince Quetzales. Y sal. Y limon.

Walking the wide vender filled street of el estor with our load, we reach the dock in just the same fashionably late moment as Capitan Don Jon. I felt so happy to see him, to be invited onto the lake by someone who knows her intimately, in her past purity, her contemporary contamination, in her fruitfulness and her scarcity of fish populations. Known for her wild gestation of the revered manatee, and her call to be protected. With a boost of respect and excitement, we greet each other and bid farewell to the shoreline of El Estor.

Drifting West not far from town center, is the processing facility of Felix mine; an open pit operation that has been extracting Nickle from these sacred mountains, the ancestral home of communities forced to reoccupy in barrios such as La Union where Don Jon and Carla live modestly in their family home.  This land converted, into property, looks brutally destroyed, gouged and exposed.

The imagery pervading such beautiful naturalness; black and red.
Piles, Don Julio describes to be 100 meters tall, of black waste earth scrapped from the mountain side, stripped of its mineral deposits, are left aside, burying the forest floor. Other waste materials have carelessly escaped the facility and leak into the lake.
Inner parts of mountain meeting water.
Upon instances, water’s clean composition is displaced with contaminants turning shallow-cold-river-narrows red. The pervasive black and red presented by mining activity recode the lush and liquid greens and blues of Lago de Izabal in her primitive state.

Through the entropy, it was clear: nature’s abundance IS alive in an ascendent co-existence with human’s imposition (referring to imperatives of modern-nation-state building, resource driven markets of violence and destructive industry, lead by western hegemony).

In these narrows, better we save the gas, invite the silence and row over sandy plateaus crossing bird islands perched by many families of garzas (herons). Approaching a larger land mass, we hear the monkeys howling; voices reigning over the insects’ buzz and hum. These jungle coastlines are bundled by thick vegetation whom make up the transition point between water and land, aqueous and solid life-ways, nourishment and shelter to swimmers, crawlers, perchers and now us, paddlers.  Beaching the boat onto shore, here is a chance to cool off and bath in waters fresher in distance from the mine. Walking further and further into her waters, Lago de Izabal does not deepen dramatically. She is soft, welcoming submersion at a temperature similar to my body. Sitting on the banks encountering blobs bobbing on the surface; “Mira!” algae clusters. They can be scooped and passed or thrown, they end up coating our bodies in a playful display of fashion.  We look closely and notice the tiny-tini bubbles, being reminded of the simplicity of life; singular cells, conjoining together, breathing together, bodies formed of chlorophyll and harvested suspended sand particles… and consciousness.

What do these beings think of the mine? How do they feel our presence?
What memories are morphed into beings so complete and everlasting?
I do not float in these salt-less waters, but I mimic this resting state to gaze upwards and to share the questions of my significant to the sky. Impact feels imminent.

Tortillas and the likes for lunch. We talk about education, Romi sharing their experience and approach with the youth, and how moments like what we are experiencing can instill a connection and commitment to the wellbeing of mama Earth. Asking Don Jon why he defends this lake. This gentle guardian is not soft spoken, though my ability to translate anecdotes beyond sensation limits my involvement in his stories. But from a presence, I listen and I receive that “esta lucha es duro” but more than anything, necessary.  

Don Jon tells us we can reach another shore to set up camp.  

This shore faces directly outwards, towards where the mouth of Lago de Izabal drinks the Caribbean Ocean. The water is even warmer. The sunset is faint and behind us. Sheltering behind our boat, fully beached by slender rolling logs, the wind is dampened, and with lots of dry leaves and a bit of nice flammable plastic (as is custom in this area to burn) we get a fire going.
Fire is a symbolic place, as it is also a warming post unnecessary on this ‘winter’ evening. It is a place to sit, settle, and synthesize sentiment. Smelling smoke brings me back to deep memories. It feels like something we all share. A necessity, really. The conversion of energy. A ritual. Being in circle is like building a ring of reminiscence.

Lighting an herbal blend, we came together around our small fire and tortillas warmed directly on the wood. Huddled and humored by the blessed winds, prohibiting any mosquitoes to latch onto my bare ankles, a knowledge share of trees and vines as food and fibers brought bonding and space for stories.
With this amazing company, including an elder of 52 years, retellings retain lessons. I learn from Romi, I learn from Styvens, as well I learn from my own voice asking questions of what they feel their dreams might mean.
He shared near death accounts, the reactionary threats from mining industry, stories that involving animal symbology… Sitting beside Don Jon I felt myself de-normalizing the fact that who we consider as land defenders, (elsewhere known as ‘environmentalists’ or ‘activists,’) here in Guatemala are in literal defence off the attack elicited by forces power ful and moral less.
But Don Jon, a being who’s lived through many, many storms is stronger.

And in they rolled, the storms, las tormentas, visible in both Eastern and Western skies. Winds as fast as flames and thunders whose rumbles made my eyes widen and stomach drop a bit. Though I felt so safe. So satisfied in this witnessing. I felt that I should be here, and if the storm so chooses to be here as well, we may welcome him, that imminent impact of natural forces, raining down and passing over.
((Land transformed by weather, land transformed by industrial machinery and displacement of human and non-human life-ways… this contrast confronted the fear I feel from mining and the complete reverence I felt for the storms.))
The display of lightening, like instantaneously visible roots plunging from the sky, brought an interactive energy within my heart, matching the gods pulse and permission to illuminate inside total darkness.

There was a magic in the naturalness of this night.
Connecting to these lands, Lago de Izabal, to each other, and to myself memorialized this meeting. Cleansed, by gusts of winds, flicked like air-filled tears from the eye of the storm. Any blocks in the body were weathered away. Energized by the electricity of this atmosphere.

When I woke, Romi and Styvens were already in the water, wading and waiting for the sun to show himself as a new day. Freely, I face the shore and go to find my wakeful state in her waters. This morning is contrastingly calm, as all stories ebb and flow. All destruction and dissipation of disorder dies down, while the lands in their trans-forms remain. Floating in the water I found a thick white and pink outer shell of a seed, with a perfume of its flesh like shampoo; how sweet she shows herself.

Waving goodbye to the shoreline that cradled our brief becoming, we all smiled, hearts assuring each other that we are returning recharged. Sitting on the floor of the boat, I focused on a tejido, tying knots in an integrative process, promising to myself to continue to make life in a beautiful way, thinking about Saqchahim and the women further from the shore who live lovingly through adversity and inspire advocacy. Having gone out and had exchange with place, I want to know the people who have inherited its stories, I want to understand the realities that are smudging her immaculate nature.

We reached the dock. More coffee, as is custom. Don Jon let me use his machete to open up a sandia, and with juice dripping faces, we shared more sweetness of this life of learning

.photos by Romi and Styvens.
some pseudonym for anonymity.

reflection from Aug 21st, 2024
Lago de Izabal, Eastern Guatemala