Last night I slept with don pancho

While we waited, Javier wrestled exchanged jokes, bromas and chismes with Danielito whose red hair, freckles and toothy smile made him look like Archie Andrews of Pep comic books. A gangly teenager still but his broad shoulders and height were signs of what he might look like in adulthood. Javier was one of his favourite uncles – he’d taken time off work to come to the airport.

When one thinks of a Latin American political activist, the iconic images which most often come to mind are Che Guevara or Zapatista rebel Subcomandante Marcos with their sweat stained bandanas, ripped army fatigues, mud-caked work boots and dark stubble chins. Javier, on the other hand, ascribed to the Eddie Bauer school of fashion. Pleated pants topped with a plaid flannel shirt more suited to a dog bed than apparel were his idea of style. He often looked more like my grandpa than a revolutionary, but it was an improvement over his footwear.

My first introduction to his unique footwear occurred at Winnipeg’s French Cultural Centre, where we had enrolled in ballroom dancing lessons. The class began encouragingly. Javier delivered a capable foxtrot, a decent cha cha, and an enthusiastic tango. I, on the other hand, struggled to follow the beat and sweated profusely.

“You spend too much time looking at your feet,” he laughed, propelling me forward like a shopping cart with a stuck wheel.

With the sweeping opening bars of a Viennese waltz, the instructor announced a switch of partners and I found myself in the arms of an elderly gent while Javier capably steered a woman twice his size around the perimeter of the room. As they swept past, he flashed a grin and kicked up his heels with flourish.

As he did so, I heard a loud squeak. And then another. My eye traced them as they twirled and I realized that with each turn, Javier’s shoes squeaked like a mouse getting its tail pulled.

I took a closer look. His shoes were neither leather nor vinyl. Instead, they were made of moulded plastic much like two soap dishes.

With each pivot of his heel, came another spine-tingling shriek. Louder and louder it got until the instructor’s head was jerking this way and that trying to see where the offending sound was coming from. Javier noticed none of it. Lost in the joy of the waltz, he was picking up speed – and volume. Just when the squeaking reached a crescendo of torment, the song ended.

No amount of manoeuvring could get the shoes to stop squeaking, so we were forced to bow out of the class early and I tossed the shoes in a bag of donations to Guatemala, where Papa Challo found them especially valuable for forging rivers.
Now, I found myself in Guatemala digging through a bag of clothing donated by friends and family in Canada looking for something to wear. I spread the items across Marilyn’s bed to get a better look. For women, all I could find was a pair of leather pants (suitable for a dominatrix and unsurprisingly complete with original tags) and a size 0 cocktail dress. With nothing to choose from, I pilfered a pair of Javier’s underwear from his suitcase and begged Marilyn for help.

Rarely seen leaving the house without high heels, she was the defacto expert in fashion. She sold Avon products and even sourced clothing during regular visits to Panama, selling the items to girlfriends unable to get travel visas. She had amassed enough profit from her endeavours to purchase her own car.

Having rebounded remarkably from her experience being hogtied to the kitchen chair, she was happy to help me find something to wear. The challenge was finding a size that would fit me. At 5 feet 8 inches tall, I was a half a foot taller than her usual client. She nodded as I squeezed myself into a shiny red polyester shirt, “Muy pechuda (very voluptuous)”

Although the silky material made me sweat, it was clean and felt heavenly. I desperately needed long pants. Rivulets of blood ran down my legs from mosquito bites.

“We’ll need to go shopping if my suitcase doesn’t show up by this afternoon,” I groaned to Javier.

“Really? You can’t wear a pair of my jeans?” he asked.

“I’m already wearing your underwear. Give me a break,” I snapped.

“No problem, we’ll go to Antigua. Don’t worry, you’ll find something to wear” he said in his conciliatory way.

The decapitated head of a pig stared back at me. On the shelf below, was what appeared to be a vacuum cleaner hose. Upon closer examination, it was, in fact, a tangle of intestines. None of the porcine body parts were bagged but instead had been stuffed inside the fridge like a jumble of winter mittens in a closet. When the slippery mass loosened its grip on a pool of blood on the shelf and began sliding out, it was all I could do not to gag.

Maybe we could eat in Antigua, I thought. Thelma gave me the run down on the menu as she stuffed the slippery body parts back in the fridge. Pork wasn’t on the menu. We were having chile rellenos, a stuffed pepper dish

Dressed in my shiny red shirt, I headed into the kitchen to help. Lorena was charring poblano chiles over an open flame and removing the skins. My job was to chop vegetables for the filling. Although the family wholeheartedly embraced technology in every other respect – large screen TVs (working or not), microwaves, computers, digital cameras and dozens of cell phones, when it came to food preparation no-one used mechanical aids such as food processors. Everything was painstakingly done by hand.

“Machines make the vegetables bitter and mushy,” said Lorena as she passed me five bowls, each the size of a basketball, to fill.

“Chop the vegetables into pieces this size,” she added showing me a carrot the size of a Tic Tac mint.

I took hold of the paring knife, which was missing half a handle, and began dicing potatoes, carrots and green beans. As I slowly filled each bowl, I passed it along to Rosabelle, my sister-in-law. She inspected each bowl’s contents, re-chopped most of it and boiled each vegetable in its own pot of water until cooked but still slightly firm.

I didn’t take offense to the re-chopping because I could see that Thelma had arrived in the kitchen and, as the acknowledged jefa (boss) of the family kitchen, would soon be examining someone else’s work just as carefully.

Lorena then added the braised shredded beef to the slivers of onions, slivers of tomato and garlic to form picadillo, a moist stuffing used for tacos and empanadas. Mary, the muchacha or housekeeper washed the pots that kept coming.

Once the filling was prepared, we stuffed the burnished peppers, dipped them in frothy egg whites, then flour and passed them to Lorena who carefully fried them in batches in hot oil. The end result was a stack of dozens of pepper fritters served with chirmol, a fresh tomato sauce and fluffy white rice.

I bit into a pepper and was rewarded by a crisp golden battered exterior, which burst open to reveal a rich moist centre happily scented with thyme and bay leaf. It was much lighter than the heavy cheese-stuffed Mexican version of chile rellenos. The next day, any leftover peppers would be tucked in crusty buns and slathered with mayonnaise for lunch. Although such labour intensive work would have been overwhelming done alone, here in Guatemala where cooking is done in a noisy group, it was actually fun. The morning passed by quickly.
The red polyester shirt was splattered with cooking oil and with no sign of my suitcase, there was no alternative but to head to the gringo mecca of Antigua to buy some clothes.

Derided by serious travelers as “Guatemala Light” or a Disneyland version of the “real” Guatemala, Antigua the colonial capital and UNESCO World Heritage site was without doubt a haven for tourist Cappuccino, yoga and internet cafes were hardly Guatemalan traditions. I fell in love at first sight.

It was an easy 25 minute drive through a winding, pine-shaded canyon to Antigua’s historic centre. While Javier talked on his cell phone, I browsed the English language bookstore on the leafy Parque Central, perused racks of clothing in some swanky boutiques and poked around in Nim Poti, a warehouse-like cooperative of Mayan crafts located in the shadow of the Arch de Santa Catalina, the much-photographed remains of a convent that dated back to 1609.

It’s impossible not to be enchanted by Antigua. Founded in 1542, it was once the home of grand palaces, ornate cathedrals and impressive government buildings. Many of the buildings were destroyed in a series of earthquakes in the 1700’s but the colonial legacy endures among the atmospheric ruins, intricately carved facades and myriad stone fountains and hidden courtyards. The cobblestone streets are mostly traffic-free and shadowed by the omnipresent two-mile high Agua volcano which looms over the south end of town.

Lost in fascination with the architecture, my feet took me past La Merced, a pale yellow confection of golden yellow stucco, glossy white trim and gardens, at the north end of town. Built in 1552, it is home to a 4 ton statue of the Black Christ which, during Holy Week, gets carried aloft by 80 robed men in a procession that moves slowly through the streets.

I was sipping cappuccino in a trendy bistro facing the church’s ornately carved fountain and listening to the clang of church bells when Javier tracked me down.

Men – especially one accompanied by a tall gringa – were such a rare sight our arrival created a stir. Vendors shouted offers as I flipped through stacks of jeans without enthusiasm. The hot sun had made me sleepy, more ready for a nap than shopping.

Javier decided to move things along and found a quiet corner under a bright orange tarp. Two guys in cowboy hats, who doubled as salesclerks and security guards, held a floral bed sheet up as a makeshift change room. They looked steadfastly ahead while I slipped behind the sheet to try on a pair of pants. I was motivated to get my arse into them quickly because, although I was worried the bed sheet might slip and expose me to the crowd, I really didn’t want anyone to see I was sporting a pair of Javier’s Joe Boxer briefs.

The pants were too small. Pair after pair -- from white polyester leggings to black satin stovepipe pants -- over they slid across the sheet curtain. I couldn’t get any of them up past my knee. Even sixe XL was too small.

The more I tried, the sweatier and dizzier I got. Javier heard the exhaustion in my voice and was soon barking out orders to a trio of teenagers conscripted to help. Taking their duties as seriously as though gathering provisions for Noah’s Ark, they dug deep into inventory stashed away in bins.

The vendor shook his head in disappointment as more measly XLs materialized.

From my seclusion behind the bedsheet I could hear the shuffling feet of a gathering crowd as the suspense grew. Would the gringa find pants to fit?

“How embarrassing it must be for Javier,” I thought imagining the crowd’s thoughts. “Why did he pick such an inutile (useless) gringa for a wife? She can’t even shop for herself.”

The experience brought back memories from my first marriage. My ex-husband would only shop for groceries if I supplied him with a list organized by store aisle. If breakfast cereal was in aisle six instead of nine, doors would start slamming and dishes would be broken when he got back home.
Today, far from being impatient with shopping, Javier seemed to be having a good time.
“Mas grande! Mas grande (bigger, we need bigger),” he shouted working the crowd like a circus ringleader.

Finally a pair of pants made it past my knees. Hope was on the horizon.

If only I could get an XXL pair – I might be able to zip them up.

“Unbelievable. I need an XXL,” I muttered to Javier, hoping no one else would hear.

Javier passed the info along -- hollering that because I liked drinking the local Guatemalan Dos XX beer so much, I now needed to wear a size XXL. A roar of appreciative laughter rose from the crowd. After much furious digging at the nether regions of the tent, one of the now-sweaty teens emerged, brandishing a pair of black XXL pants.

“The last pair,” he proclaimed waving them above his head like a World Cup soccer jersey. Mission accomplished, the floral curtain came down, we paid the vendor the five bucks and the crowd dispersed.

Chapter 11: Martinis to Mangoes

My ex-husband was back. One morning I found him sleeping beside the rear tire of my car.

“Do you want us to take care of the problem?” asked Oscar, who came over to assess the situation. He was accompanied by a short quiet man with silver teeth.

. Letters began to arrive in my mailbox and although the words on the pages were incoherent ramblings, the sheet of paper was covered with drawings of devils, my name written and circled with such force the pencil had ripped holes in the paper. One daughter reported her father had built a shrine in his house. It featured a life size photo of me surrounded by candles and personal belongings such as my wedding ring and silver coins my father had given me each graduation year from grade one. The girls were scared to visit him. Fear filled my thoughts, drifting in and out like a cold Winnipeg wind

Returning from the grocery store, I saw him emerge from behind a tree, put his hand in the shape of a gun, point it at me and pull the imaginary trigger.

Oscar argued for strong counteractive measures. Javier was unimpressed. “The guy used a finger for a gun?”

All I knew was that I wanted to get away. My ex husband was a dark presence that made me feel smaller. Fear returned to my life. I could feel myself shrinking, scared of shadows, startled by small sounds.

When an opportunity arose to transfer to the Toronto office, I took it. Within a month, we were gone, leaving an empty house and no forwarding address.

Toronto is a city of five million people. While sheer pantyhose and a suit were enough to make the corporate grade in my job on the prairies, it wasn’t enough to cut it in my new position as Vice-president of Sales in the big city.

“I can take you from forgettable to unforgettable,” promised the company image consultant. Soon, I was wearing a red blazer, strings of pearls and carefully applied makeup to breakfast networking events. I had a jewellery buyer, a golf instructor and a maid. Along with a clothing consultant who wheeled in a selection of designer suits each month, I honed my public speaking skills with video training sessions after hours and racked up thousands of miles on the freeway.

By the end of the first year, I was exhausted. Engulfed in corporate stress I was sliding downward fast. Enroute to appointments, I’d pull over at the side of the highway, vomit, get back in my leather-upholstered car and keep driving. My heart pounded so hard I got EKG assessments monthly. The doctor prescribed pills to help me sleep.

More than exhaustion, I was feeling increasingly disconnected from what the company considered success factors. My briefcase was worth the equivalent of two months salary in Guatemala and even my oldest Gucci bag could have supported several children in orphanages such as Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos (Our Little Brothers and Sisters) or sponsored at-risk children at Safe Passage, an organization working with families living at Guatemala’s civic garbage dump.

One evening, I attended a sales launch at a swanky private club and somewhere between the cocktail reception and the awards ceremony, a Brinks truck rolled up and a pair of armed uniformed guards wheeled four shiny display cases filled with sparkling diamonds up a red carpet into the ballroom. The jewels were motivational tools intended to incite enough longing in the sales representatives to catapult us to higher sales targets.

It was a pivotal moment for me. While I loved the competition, strategy and creative opportunities of corporate life, I viewed it as a well-paid chess game. Coming face-to-face with the materialistic heart of it sickened me and I felt disconnected from the corporate mandate focused on personal wealth. The distance grew with each passing month. How could I quit? I was earning a six figure income. My ex-husband had never made a child support payment and I had a long list of financial obligations from mortgage payments to car payments. Javier was just starting out in his career in Toronto. Shackled by golden handcuffs, I hung on.

Our home in Toronto’s suburbs was no safe haven either. The neighbourhood that had seemed so idyllic initially, wasn’t. Hidden behind the park bordering our cul-de-sac was a nuclear power station that hummed silently from its squat position on the waterfront. Nearby a string of chemical plants sounded sirens when spills occurred. The sky was often yellow with smog and humidity.

In response, I began writing about nature - feeding squirrels, flying kites and walking and sent the stories to our community newsletter. The publication was so desperate for contributors I was given a regular column. For one story, I interviewed a volunteer who had just come back from an assignment in Azerbaijan with the Canadian Executive Service Organization (CESO), a development organization that sent experienced executives overseas on short term assignments.

“I could do this,” I thought, submitting my resume to the roster as a sales and marketing expert.

I began writing more. Several stories were published and a story about travelling to Greece with my daughters was included in an anthology of women’s writing.

“Did you have to use our real names?” moaned my eldest daughter, while the youngest snickered.

What I lacked in formal writing training, I made up with sales techniques I used in my corporate life. Using sales pipeline theory (more prospects in the funnel equates to more sales), my goal was to pitch three ideas for articles each day. It wasn’t easy. For every editor who liked my writing there were dozens who didn’t.

“You’re not going to want to read this one,” warned my youngest daughter as she checked my email.

There in black and white was a response from an east-coast editor.

“We would never buy this,” she wrote.

“According to sales theory, any response is better than no response,” I told my daughter. “At least a dialogue is underway.”

I took writing courses and soaked up terminology about ledes and paragraph transitions. Many stories hit national newspapers, others sold internationally. Before long, I was receiving offers from tourism boards to travel as their guest. Malaysia, India, Spain –offered press trips to go on safari or hike the Camino de Santiago. I wondered if I could do it all. Could I juggle my growing passion for exploring the world with an executive position that allowed no time off?

One morning, we watched the news showing an airplane hitting a tower in New York City. At the office, we all stood and watched it happen over and over on my computer screen. Then, another plane hit the second tower. I closed the office, sent everyone home and spent the rest of the day hugging my daughter on the couch watching the horror unfold on the TV.

Several months later, when the company decided to centralize operations, I had a choice. I could take a severance package or transfer back to Winnipeg. I decided to take a month off to think.

By coincidence or fate, my first assignment as a volunteer adviser with CESO materialized. The application I’d submitted on a whim was accepted. My assignment was to go to Honduras and help a 16,000-member women’s cooperative create a strategic plan and help grow their micro-credit bank. It was located just across the mountain range from our family ranch in Guatemala. Both countries had been extensively damaged by Hurricane Mitch and the Honduran women needed assistance with their small businesses to survive.

I spent a month visiting women in remote areas, gathering lists of project ideas, talking with community leaders about needs and hearing their stories. Temperatures reached 46 Celsius during the day, armed thugs patrolled the streets and insects bit so voraciously that blood ran down my legs.

Despite the physical discomforts, I was inspired by the women I met. One entrepreneurial group had been making coffins to bury the dead after the hurricane and had developed enough carpentry skills to diversify into making furniture. Another wanted to borrow $100 to make a wedding gown to rent out to villagers for wedding photos. Many of the women faced violence in their home yet conquered their fears and took considerable personal risks to begin new lives.

My work helped raise three years’ worth of funding, meaning that for some their dreams of fish farms and dressmaking shops would be a reality. I discovered that my sales experience was a tool that allowed me to do more than just make rich people richer.

The work felt real and it felt right.

Changing the lives of others inspired me to make changes in my own life. Additional CESO assignments in Bolivia and Russia gave me the confidence in my ability to take my corporate experience and apply it to the non- profit world. Soon, I had a permanent part-time position at Canada’s largest environmental justice organization and an armful of travel writing assignments.

Meanwhile, Javier was discovering that what had been an obstacle in a small city was actually an advantage in a large ethnically diverse city. He seemed to have no problem fitting into Toronto’s slice of Canadian culture. We lived in Toronto’s Greektown, the highest concentration of Greeks outside of Athens. He fit in the raucous neighbourhood where he could get a haircut surrounded by posters of soccer stars and statues of religious icons. He was so well known in the neighbourhood that the Greek shopkeepers would adjust my orders.

“He likes this one better,” the cheesemonger said, substituting a chunk of creamy Dodonis feta for the low fat version I’d ordered. No-one even objected when he marched in the Greek Independence Day parade, seeing how much he loved a street party and the grilled quail along the procession route.

His easy-going personality combined with his training in agricultural engineering positioned him well in the booming housing construction business. He could read blueprints and understood soil, elevation and most of all conciliatory relationships. In an industry dominated by factions – Jamaicans, Italians and Portuguese - he was the bridge that cemented the trades together.

Starting out as a landscaper, he was soon construction supervisor at one of the city’s largest home builders. Before long he was promoted to site supervisor and had 200 homes to build before winter set in. The promotion also meant he got almost no vacation time.

With my own career in travel writing progressing, I decided to see if I could sell a story on Guatemala and to my surprise, quickly got an assignment and was soon heading back to San Vicente.

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