Reminders
Ch 1. How Knowledge Is Lost
Guatemala, 2004
"This reminds me of home," she said softly, "of Switzerland."
I leaned forward and placed my chin on her shoulder, pulling her closer to me. I had never been to Switzerland, but from pictures I had seen and what I had read it certainly didn't seem like where we were. Somewhat confused, I just let her statement stand. The small dock we were on, jutting out and into the waters of Lake Atitlan, rocked gently, rhythmically as the evening waves came ashore.
Cliffs and jagged hills run rampant throughout the coarse land
Lago del Atitlán, a reference used by locals, is a naturally forming lake within an active volcanic region. Seated in the western highlands of Guatemala, the lake is one of many dwelling places for descendants of the ancient Maya. Cliffs and jagged hills run rampant throughout the coarse land making travel slow and difficult, keeping at bay intruders and travelers alike for moons past. Through this limited isolation, the inhabitants have managed to retain many of the customs of their predecessors - languages, beliefs and superstitions likewise spared from the movement of time.
It was June, nearing the end of the rain season, Central America's close cousin to what most call winter. The days were getting warmer but when the sun went down a strong chill sat in the air.
The sun was down now and I was glad I had brought a blanket. Woven by hand, as has been the tradition for centuries past, it did well to ward off the cold and dampness in the air. Intricate Maya symbols woven into the blanket would ward off any malevolence I had been assured by the merchant, an eccentric, old man.
I sat with my back resting against one of the dock's pilings, Kisha sitting in front of me, her back leaning into my chest, resting against me. Waves lapped gently under the dock; a light breeze drifted across the lake. The blanket wrapped us, warming us, protecting us.
"Guatemala like Switzerland?" I wondered.
Images of Guatemala came to mind - of civil war and banditos...of corruption, poverty, superstition
Images of Guatemala came to mind - of civil war and banditos running around with machetes, of corruption, poverty, superstition and third world living standards. Switzerland, in contrast peaceful, Europe's richest country, industrialized, neutral in wartime, no banditos.
"But there is more..."
Guatemala, a land rich in history, once the ruler of an empire extending over much of Central America, a proud, determined people, people who had invited me into their homes, sharing what little they had unpretentiously.
Switzerland, on the other hand, accused by many of building her wealth off the misfortune of others during the same wars she was supposed to be neutral within. My mind wandered to secret, numbered Swiss bank accounts supposedly harboring the ill-gotten gains of dictators, drug lords and other henchmen.
"Banditos in three-piece suits?" I wondered quitely.
"Say again?" Kisha asked.
"Nothing, sorry, just thinking out loud."
I drew a deep breath. The air, cool and crisp, smelled strong of the day's rainfall and, not surprisingly, Kisha, her long blond hair blowing about lightly in the wind, rising gracefully off her neck. I leaned forward again, as close as I could without touching, and drank deeply from the wonderful scent she exuded.
"She doesn't smell like a bandito," I happily observed.
"Lake Zürich in Switzerland is like this," she continued, "with small villages ringing the lake. At night, you look across the water and see the lights of the other villages, just like what you see here."
I looked across the lake at the lights shining in the distance. I could see the glow of only two other villages, San Pedro and San Juan, but I knew some ten to twelve others sat on the lake's shores in various places, most obscured from our view by the snaking shoreline and interceding cliffs.
Three volcanoes, Atitlán, Pico Toliman and San Pedro, sat opposite us in ominous silence
Three volcanoes, Atitlán, Pico Toliman and San Pedro, each towering some 10,000 feet, sat opposite us in ominous silence betraying the fear, the violence and the power they had once weld over the land and its inhabitants. Though other volcanoes in the area are still active, these rest, their time having come and gone. Today they are gentle, sleeping giants, two of them nestled up against the water, touching the shoreline, becoming the shoreline for much of the lake.
"Lipe, have you ever been to Europe?” she asked.
“No.” I replied, pulling the blanket tighter around us. “Do you miss Switzerland?”
“Yes,” she answered, gazing across the lake. “Do you know what we call Switzerland in Switzerland?”
“You mean you don’t call it Switzerland?” I quized sheepishly.
“No. We call it die Schweiz. Do you know what they call Germany in Germany?” she asked with a mischevious grin, still looking across the lake, obviously baiting me.
“I’m guessing they don’t call it Germany.”
“No. They call it Deutschland. And in Spanish, Germany is known as Alemania.”
“You would think people would be considerate enough to call a country by the same name the inhabitants use,” I proposed.
“You would think so,” she went on, “especially if there is not a direct translation for the name. ‘The United States’ translates word for word into Spanish as ‘Los Estados Unidos’. Each word can stand on its own in the translation within either language. America is Amerika. It isn’t like that with Deutschland, Alemania or Suisse though.”
“So much for translations,” I ventured.
"Translations are just one of many ways knowledge gets lost," she continued, gazing across the lake.
"Translations are just one of many ways knowledge gets lost," she continued.
“What sort of knowledge?” I asked, my interest rising.
“Things you wouldn’t normally even consider. Archaeology is a good example. Archaeologists go off searching for the remains of ancient civilizations, an ancient city let's say, and they look for clues to the location of ruins in documents, or on carvings, a thousand, maybe even thousands of years old. Someone translates a phrase and an important clue is missed."
She continued, "Why? Because a thousand years ago the city was called by a different name, and depending on the nationality of the author, it might not even be the name the native inhabitants used. Luxor Temple in Egypt is a good example, the ancients referred to it as ‘Ipet-Resyt’ but few today would recognize that name.”
“I don’t recognize that name,” I thought to myself, then repeated with a smile, “So much for translations.”
“Switzerland is a pretty word though and we don’t mind people calling our country that,” she said glancing my way, a slight smile on her face, giving me tacit approval to continue calling her homeland by a foreign name.
ch2 will come in a couple of weeks