Volcanes del Corazón – Guatemala, November, 2023

It’s November and once again my wanderlust has lit its fire under me. 

I’m off to Guatemala. For no more of a reason than that I’ve heard it’s beautiful and I know several people who’ve been there—including one family member on whom the place has had a life-changing effect.

The focus of my trip is twofold: First, my daughter, Amanda, will be joining me for a week; second, I'm enrolled in Spanish school, continuing my dogged quest for fluency.

We're based in the beautiful former colonial capital, La Antigua Guatemala—or simply La Antigua—where, after my morning classes, we explore the town on foot. Then, during the weekend between my two weeks of school, we head for the drop-dead gorgeous Lake Atitlán.

I'll be posting a more detailed reflection of the experience, but for now here's the story in pictures—my ten-minute slideshow.

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 3

PART 3 OF 5 PARTS

LANGUAGE SCHOOL
I don’t recall when I first realized the sheer genius of building my travel adventures around language school. The first of many advantages is the cost of the Spanish classes. Instruction in Latin America, obviously by native speakers, is typically a fraction of the cost of comparable classes here at home. Even for private, one-on-one sessions.

Another factor is that if one takes advantage of lodging provided by a language school—usually a choice between a dorm-style room in the school and a home stay with a nearby family—that cost, too, is a fraction of what one would pay for a room in even a modest hotel.

My home-stay family in Boquete, Panama

Thirdly, a benefit that’s especially valuable when you're traveling solo, attending language school affords you a ready-made circle of friends and a very flexible array of extra-curricular activities to choose from. Cooking classes, salsa dancing, volunteer service and any number of excursions ranging from in-town walks to entire weekends in the boonies.

  You either put together an intelligible
  request or you go without that cerveza.

One of my Spanish school cohorts

So far, I’ve built trips around language schools in Panama, Cuba and several times in Mexico.

When you want to get really good at a language, it takes a lot of work, a lot of discipline. Of course there’s learning all the grammar, memorizing the conjugations, growing your vocabulary. But once you’ve laid that foundation, nothing cements it and builds your confidence like being totally immersed in the language. Sink or swim; you either put together an intelligible request or you go without that cerveza. 

The quality of teaching I’ve seen in my language schools has varied greatly. Stands to reason most of the instructors have been young people—usually in their 20s to early 30s. And few of them have had the presence, not to mention the knowledge and experience, to be super effective teachers.

If you go this route, I encourage you to be as clear as you can up front with the school director about what you want to accomplish. I’ve found myself in a few unproductive classes where either I was placed in a group of students not at my level, or the instructor wasted time on material I’d already mastered.

Learning a language is exhausting. Be sure not to, as I have, schedule so many hours of instruction every day that you burn out. Balance is key. For example, I now know to ask for one or two hours a day of formal classroom instruction and a couple more hours of more relaxing, real-world practice—what I call “learning on the fly.”

Frida and I visit the textiles museum

       The goal...is to abandon myself
       to the rhythm of the conversation.

That is, doing some sort of activity—like exploring the area, meeting locals or simply sitting and chatting over coffee or a beer—with a teacher who knows how to engage you and then lets you talk. Not every teacher can pull that off, steering and correcting you without interrupting the flow of conversation.

The goal, at least at my advanced level, is to abandon myself to the rhythm of the conversation, to attain that magical flow where the process no longer involves any conscious translation or awareness of rules. Where my brain goes right from the idea to its expression—preferably in 95 percent correct Spanish. (Dare I aspire to my ultimate goal, to speak decent Mexican Spanish with no foreign accent? I can dream…)

My school in Oaxaca is Becari Manual Bravo, which I found on-line. It stood out from the dozens of other language schools in the city because the director was quick to show me that I was communicating with a real, smart, caring human being. (This is how I make many of my travel decisions—lodging, tours, services, etc.) 

Sandra Rivera Bennetts is a truly remarkable woman. I hear she and her sister founded Becari Language School years ago. Apparently, there was some kind of dust-up between them and they ended up splitting the school into two cooperating, yet separate campuses.

The first day I walk into the school’s airy inner courtyard, Sandra greets me like an old friend and administers the assessment exam to determine the level of my Spanish. No surprise, it shows I’m fairly advanced, but with weaknesses in the use of both the imperative and subjunctive voices.

Becari M. Bravo's airy courtyard, surrounded by classrooms

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, on my first morning in the classroom, teacher Andrea starts mapping out the rules and usage guidelines for exactly those two skills. She's a thoughtful, well-prepared, engaging teacher. Over the next two weeks, with the help of both classroom drills and homework exercises, I learn to better understand both areas and, by the end of week one, I’m acing my homework. Now it’s just a matter of putting what I know into practice.

My other main expectation of my Spanish learning is to have unstructured time just chatting with a teacher and perhaps other locals. That hope is met in expert fashion by my two other teachers. Each morning at 11:00 my second teacher, Frida, leads me on a one- to two-hour walk, exploring some of the central city’s interesting, artsy barrios. We also take a couple of half-day excursions to natural wonders and craft artisans’ workshops in nearby villages.

A pottery artisan demonstrates her technique

And my 2:00 PM “class” is a conversation session with Gary, who's really good at sustaining a dialogue about a wide range of topics. Another reason he’s such a good teacher is that he’s a student of language himself. We talk about the nuances and curiosities of language in general and Spanish in particular. He’s also a great storyteller, knowledgeable beyond his years not just in the language, but also in Mexican and Oaxaca history, arts and culture.

Gary and I converse in the courtyard

It’s a wonderful and, I think, effective two weeks of polishing my Spanish. Becari M. Bravo is far and away the best language school I've attended. With their capable help, I think I've jacked up both my level of proficiency and my confidence at least a notch. Perhaps the best measure of success is that for the whole time I speak very, very little English. A true immersion experience.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Food and Drink, should be landing here in the next day or two.

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind

The Oaxaca Series
Instead of the tedious, chronologic journaling format that’s so common in people’s trip reports, I’ve decided to organize my Oaxaca posts by category, by the four main themes of my experience: 1) language school; 2) Day of the Dead; 3) food and drink; and 4) arts and handcrafts—and the following brief introduction to lay the groundwork. So here goes…

                    ~    •    ~    •   ~   

INTRODUCTION

I’d been wanting to visit Oaxaca for years.

Due to my ever-growing interest in Mexico—fueled in great part by my late-in-life quest for fluency in Spanish—I’ve managed to at least set foot in about half of the country’s 31 states.

From the arid lowlands of Sonora to the temperate, mile-high central plateau called the Valley of Mexico, to the upmarket tip of the Baja Peninsula, gateway to the Sea of Cortez; from the tropical Pacific coast string of beaches known as La Costa Grande to the cool, mountainous forests and unique Gulf Coast flavors of Veracruz. I’ve loved it all.

But Oaxaca, the furthest south of any of these climes, has always had its own special appeal. First of all, for the virtues everyone talks about: the food, the art and handcrafts, the mezcal.

But there’s also the state’s unique fusion of several indigenous cultures, whose colors, flavors and customs are ever-present in day-to-day life. Oaxaca City’s Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration—a blend of those pre-Columbian traditions with the European, Catholic traditions imposed by the invading Spaniards—is generally regarded as one of the most spectacular anywhere in Mexico.

I can see why the city’s such a popular destination for both Mexicans and world travelers. Part of the appeal is its apparent small scale. I’m seeing no buildings with more than two stories.

I learn that the reason for the buildings’ limited stature is a variation of the old saw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Earthquakes are so common here that taller structures just aren’t considered safe. This is also the reason, I’m told, that building walls tend to be quite thick here.

The weather is ideal at this time of year. By late October the rainy season is all but over. Temperatures reach the mid-70s to 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and fall into the lower 60’s to mid-50s at night. Humidity’s low. With the city’s elevation just over 5,000 feet, the sun is powerful, but otherwise it’s a benign climate.

And a personal connection: Oaxaca, along the Pacific coast, is where my friend and compadre, Silverio, was born. He and his family, though he’s now a U.S. citizen, still hold the region’s traditions close to their hearts. I’ve always wanted to visit the state, if not the actual village, that’s so much a part of them.

So, last year, I was finally going to make it happen—a two-week trip to Oaxaca including the week-long celebration of Day of the Dead. I decided, as I often do when traveling in Latin America, to focus my activities on a language-learning objective. I enrolled in language school.

So it was all set. Then, as if that vision wasn’t perfect enough, my daughter, Amanda, asked if she could join me, enrolling in beginner’s Spanish. I was over the moon.

But COVID-19 put the kibosh on that dream.

RECLAIMING THE DREAM
This past spring, as it became evident that we were gradually, painfully moving past the pandemic, I decided to reclaim the dream. Only this time, sadly, Amanda wouldn’t be able to join me.

First, I made sure the language school I’d been in touch with, Becari Manuel Bravo, would still be a good fit for my ambitious pursuit of Spanish. Sandra, the school director, couldn’t have been any nicer or more helpful, offering to tailor an advanced program to my interests, and even recommending several possible hotel accommodations.

Well, I soon discovered that you don’t waltz into a Día-de-Muertos-week hotel reservation in Oaxaca city just four months ahead of time. I contacted all of Sandra’s suggestions and no fewer than 35 other hotels before I finally found an available room in a decent hotel.

Hotel Casa Conzatti

As for air connections, I was happy to find flights on the days I wanted—and at reasonable hours—for around $800 round-trip. Not a steal, but doable. And with just one stop each way—not in some city an acute angle and 1,500 miles away from a straight route—but right on the way, in Dallas / Fort Worth.

So, on Sunday, October 23, I’m up at 4:00 AM for my 6:30 flight, and the adventure begins.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Día de Muertos, should be landing here in the next day or two.

BOQUETE PANAMA - Parting Images

Most Boqueteños seem prosperous; I love this home, a block from school.

Others live in little more than lean-tos.

False façade against misty mountains

A spectacular fungus – Chorcha, Chiriquí

Butterfly – Chorcha, Chiriquí (anyone recognize the variety?)

Rescued howler monkey, Alouatta Lodge

Habla Ya school director, Lorena, chats with staffer, Ismenia.

An excursion to David; playing Password in Spanish

Woman dressed in traditional pollera – David

My new friend and fellow student, Lucy, from England

My wonderful host, Guillermo, bids me buen viaje.

Veracruz - Wed., 10/28 '09

It's late. I've just gotten back from a very pleasant night with a few of my compadres, so I'll try to make today's post a quick one. (We'll see...)

As my classes— and especially my informal conversations with my teachers, charlantes and fellow students— continue, I'm getting flashes of the realization that I'm well on my way to my goal of becoming fluent (whatever that means) in Spanish.

For this morning's outing after class teacher/charlante Margot (I have to remember that here it's pronounced Mar-goat') took a couple of us once again to the central historic district. We climbed up into the Baluarte Santiago, which we've driven by nearly every day. There are historical exhibits inside, but we decided it wasn't worth the admission price and opted to just walk around the perimiter and see the dozen or so cannon poking through the parapet. As we passed a non-descript doorway we noticed a couple of young men inside working on a Day of the Dead altar. Margot struck up a conversation and the next thing we knew, we were inside the little room getting a very generous description from one of the young men of some of the traditions of this intriguing holiday.

Our next stop was the IBEC, a college-level school of the arts. The place was alive with students dancing here, singing there, strumming guitars in the hallways and, in the distance someone was playing the piano, the music seeming to create its own space . We were invited into one room full of music students learning the basics of rhythm, clapping and stomping their feet to the direction of their maestra. There was a small art gallery with some very nice work. We also ran into a man whom Margot introduced as the teacher of the classes in Afro-Carribean dance she takes there three evenings a week.

We ventured out into the school's inviting central courtyard, filled with lush vegitation, a fountain and echos of all the sounds I've described. In one corner was a table with three indigenous women preparing the traditional ceremonial tamales for the school's Day of the Dead altar. They explained what they were doing and its significance. The tamales were huge, with the corn masa (dough) spread over several broad leaves (not the usual platano leaf, but one from a plant they could only describe in their main language, Náhuatl). When it came time to add the chicken— usually sprinkled rather sparcely in a tamale— , they reached in, with bare hands, to a large metal pot and placed whole- chicken- sized piles of the pieces onto each bed of masa, along with the thick dark red sauce in which it had been cooked. I was especially enamored of the lovely face of one of the middle-aged women, whose generous smile and gentle manners made us feel like family.

Afternoon class and after-class time were pretty uneventful, but tonight six of us, including staffer Rebeca, took the bus south for a few miles to Giro's, a restaurant well known for its tacos. They did not disappoint. Of the ten or twelve varieties, I tried the local specialty, tacos al pastor (shepherd's tacos), another style and a little tequila to wash them down. The food was wonderful, the company was great and the staff was very attentive and nice. (It was interesting and timely that the cooks and some of the waiters were wearing surgical masks and each waiter offered his customers a squirt of hand sanitizer before they received their food.)

After dinner, we headed for a hall where there was to be a performance of works by famous Veracruzano composer and pianist Augustín Lara. When we got there, the door was locked and the only people to be seen were a local TV cameraman with big camera and another man. As we tried the door and waited for a while, we struck up a conversation with both men and discovered the latter is a poet. He and I discussed a bit of philosophy (his view of the world and life is a cosmic one in which everything is related and everything exists within everything else—much like my Querétaro painter friend Fernando Garrido's outlook). Finally, the cameraman knocked on the door and the person who answered told us the performance had been postponed until tomorrow night.
Before we left, I asked the poet if he had any of his work on paper that he could share with us. He said no, but, with a little pressure, he recited a poem in which the wisdom of the ages comes down to the poet from the cosmos, enters his head, flows down his arm like golden honey and spills onto the paper as his poetry. It was one of those moments that seldom happen when everything goes the way you'd planned.

A few of us were able to ease the disappointment of missing the concert by buying a sixpack of Modelo and drinking it on the school's outdoor patio, where we had a great conversation (much of it in Spanish, but not all) and learned a bit more about each other. For example, I found out the Mike is a retired therapist and that Laurie once was an Alaskan bush pilot!

I have not done as I said I would; this is too long. But if you've born with me this far, thanks for your interest and patience!