Buh, thanks for the nice posts, keep it up.
So yesterday after work I went to the bar at the corner and ate some food and ended up engaging with two guatemalans over beer, one from my moms department, the other from Panajachel. They'd come up for work in the restaurant industry. They told me they live with a ton of guatemalans, probably all Mayan in White Plains and that area. It was strange because there's something so different about Guatemalans here. I'd venture to say that they're subjectivity is under extreme pressures, to the point that they're alienated from themselves. Not only that, but the bare minimum state support that they'd learned to expect at home post peace accords, is inverted into an omnipresent threat by omnipotent networks of intelligence and force. Here there's none of that stuff for us is what Tomas told me. All there is is beer, hot waitresses and lots of work. Nevertheless, this giant reaper of an economy needs them to keep running, and does with them and their lives and their families and their countries, what it wills. Maybe there are no rights or law here for them, but what there is here for migrant workers is the growing trend of using the terms "terrorist" and "illegal" interchangeably. The confusion of terms speaks to no logical or even political connection between the two. The only connection is that of the demands of the nervous system. When they're needed, they come on their own, when they're not, they're arrested, locked up or deported... When they pose a threat, persecuted, blown up, interrogated or assassinated, here or there. I've come to realize that capital is global, wall street is symbolic, used for desperate protestors, there's no center, the center of capital is your computer screen, where your stocks dance up and down and the news keeps you paranoid. The prospects of ejection hit Rafael here over a Corona, as hard as losing a job hits Josefa at my Dad's Casa del Mundo "economia my mala" meeting in Guatemala.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
triiippy as fuck
theres people, theres people in the world...
people in the world whom you meet, and people who you dont...
people who you dont ever see...anywhere, facinating people...
facinating people ...what do i mean with facinating? think about it...
facinating... ... ...
what is facinating?
this...i think, this right here, this very moment, this very moment is facinating...
take a break, take a chill, take a chill :)...do me a favour please...
can you stop reading, and click this link http://www.thesixtyone.com/#/s/akVlIemhlRa/
now re-read...from the top
now re-read...from the top
who do i mean by you? do you know?
no you don't...IM TALKING TO YOU WHO CANT READ THIS!!!
to you who has created this...you mother earth you mother of mine...
im talking to you...
there are people such beautiful people...adorable creatures,adorable beings...
is this love? that im feeling? its a deep deep pain, together with such a beautiful tingle...
its such movement, such life...such a passient passient anccious feeling...
amigos!! my friends!!! meine freunde!!! Can YOU here me?
you too are people, such amazing amazing people...keep strong, hold!
the river is stronger then ever, and the weight, that such heavy weight walking over us...
bridges get tiered too you know...and in this bridge, we all stand, some stand before it,
some behind it looking back at those who want to cross...the water is nearly reaching the top...
it comes with such streangth! and then there are those who stand in the water, the conqrete walls some are the passage over...and i am standing ontop making my way accross...
thats my view on life...but i too am a part of the bridge, when i am on it i am the bridge as much as anything else, for we all are one...that part might be hard to understand, i dont know how to put it in words what i mean...but just as this website, my laptop, and my hands are one...everything that makes up the bridge and the one crossing and the river are all one...
thats what its about, being a bridge BEING A BRIDGE...and not a reason...and in my opinion nieztsche over estemates us, i dont think one person alone can be the bridge or a bridge, we are a social creature, the bridge must be built as a society...
love...right? im feeling bridge right...its a loose tingly feeling, all over the body, relieved, satisfied...i can move on with my life now, my own body is massaging me...this is a feeling beyond love...im feeling good :) i hope you are as well...
BYE PEOPLE...
bye my bridges, bye...
bye...
Friday, November 12, 2010
world! world of the future!
where do you roam?
have you lost your sence of insanity?
he stood ontop of the mountain watching the sunset,
he stood ontop of the mountain watching the sunset,
it went to shine somewhere else, in the underworld
where there is darkness...
and so the bridge is built, between the two sides
ying and yang the concept of the regular good and evil...
look beyond my world!!
the future, for the who believes in time and finds the concept necessary
let there be time, but he must know that will be his death...
The immortal is he who goes beyond the invented concept of time to messure distances bla bla bla.
the immortal is not alive, he is beyond alive, the immortal does not die, he is beyond death...
world, what is your future? or have you gone beyond?
can you die or be destroyed? humanity can you?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall
The moment I arrived home to Guate I felt strange energy. It's that feeling you get after leaving the creepy first world where everything is rigged to look good, but really isn't. Here, everything looks bad, and most of it is bad. The whole country seemed wet, drenched, like a wet dog staring at me before a bath. My father welcomed me with the story of driving by a bullet-holed police truck after three coordinated shootings against vehicles of the penitentiary system, orchestrated by drug lords from in jail, killing three. There's no wonder why Guate is 3rd worldwide in homicides. Then followed a discussion with my brother during the windy highland drive towards Lake Atitlan, about Guatemalan problems and solutions. His view is simple: centralize power, alter the constitution to do so, come down hard on gangs and drug lords with brute force including torture and the use of the army, and elect a strong, charismatic leader who will amass political power to eradicate this amount of violence. My view: not so simple, structural explanations, international influences, anti-militarism, anti-torture, anti-constitution alteration, anti-centralized power. Who's view is more realistic? That's the problem, I have no idea. Realistic ceases to make any sense here. My brother wishes to stop violence and chaos with more violence. I wish to stop violence with 'politically correct' principles and theories. He has had my position in the past, and now he's tired of it, because his nails are worn to the nerve from scratching at the frustrating metal box that is violence. That once you're country is in it, and you want out, everything appears what it's not. And the walls seem to get thicker.
So with that, I listened to some Bob Dylan and we made it home safely. It was raining outside from the moment I flew in, to the moment I arrived home. Damp, everything was damp outside. Without my phone with numbers, and having not told anybody in the community I was coming, I was alone, at home, but not really home. And that's how I spent my first two days home, alienated from home and thinking about how fucked up this country is and how strange it is that my family exists as if in a bubble of illusory protection, and how it is that life just goes on here, despite the rain, despite the deaths, the terrorism, despite the metal box.
And life did go on. A volcano exploded in Antigua, closing the airport and cutting off tourism for the next few days. I was thankful I had made it in. It rained water, mostly, and a little sand and ashes, and rained... and rained. After having taken my dad to have ankle surgery, he was destined to bed-ridden-ness for the next few days. Saturday May 31st rolled around, and by mid, day I could tell that something was up with the amount of rain, and judging by our experience with Hurricane Stan's rains in 2005, something bad was going to happen. Even the rain sounded different, quieter, welcomed into the ground by heavy mud. Somehow, after about three days of rain, the birds were still singing. On Saturday, it rained a total of 3 feet, (1m) of water, superseding records, and river beds.
As I sat in the car staring out at the pouring rain, I filled the tank, anticipating being stranded from the outside world of essential resources, and Bob Dylan's a Hard Rain's Gonna Fall came on. "I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin."
It was disgusting to me, in a tragi-comic way, how the best word I could find to describe the situation on Facebook that evening was, "apocalypse?"
I saw how we welcomed this tragedy, in a nearly masochistic way. We stood by the rivers, waiting, documenting, nearly hoping to see something bad happen: a bridge fall in, the river rise, a house fall in. I saw language conjure a "disaster" out of nothingness. Everyone wanted to be the first to make others know of the severity of the situation, as well as the impending disaster. I saw how lots of rain turned into "Agatha," the tropical storm. I saw how "a landslide" turned into "landslides" that "wiped out X, Y and Z' s houses" that were "gone." I saw how landslides on roads turned into "roads completely destroyed." The exaggerations, although completely false, only served as a means with which to 'make something of' the scary situation. In talking about it in such terms, one's opinion and assessment was validated, and taken more seriously, one became the hero, who told the world the truth. The impact of the exaggerated language, unfortunately, didn't rival the severity of the material reality. Those signifiers and signifieds can only be experienced in person. The exaggerated language merely served as a way of coming to terms with, or coping with, the material reality that seems completely out of our control.
That night, "bajo el rio" (the river came down), an expression used here on Atitlan, where parts of towns are built on mainly river deltas due to growth, and after rains, it's expected that a sudden rush of water make it to the village slightly afterword, usually small enough for the bed to contain. Last Saturday at around 6:30pm the boulders in the rivers thundered through mud, trees, garbage in huge overflowing rivers, shaking the near-by ground, powerful enough to smash through entirely submerged homes, fill nearby houses with thick mud and create new riverbeds that didn't exist the day before. This happened to El Jaibalito, the Mayan town I grew up next door to. Luckily, people were evacuated that evening, or took to higher ground.
Sunday, the rain's slowed down, leaving behind region-wide, thousands evacuated, hundreds left homeless, 150 dead, and lots of money to be spent on roads and 32 unusable bridges. The inflammatory language was viral, and seemed to serve a soothing function.
I would come home and do my best to update my bed-ridden father about the state of his property, town and department. I had been to one of those houses that had been submerged. It's roof was gone, walls half-bashed in, completely emptied of its insides. Next to it was Aurelio Simon, a current construction employee of my father, salvaging the electricity breaker box of his light blue house. He was quiet and serious. He told me, "mucho problema aqui" (many problems here). I think of this as an expression sometimes used by indigenous in Atitlan used to describe anything that's unwanted that has entered life. It's used for social feuds, health problems, money problems, relationships, alcoholism, crime and in this case, disaster. In what was once the interior of his house, was a bright red, blue and yellow painting of the virgin Mary. Something about that touched me, and brought unwanted moisture to my eyes and that radiating tingly feeling through my nose, stomach, and throat. Was Virgin Mary his way of warding off "problemas?" How was he supposed to explain this? How does anyone explain unwanted, unexpected, undeserved, and unforeseeable loss? I want to think that the Virgin Mary protected the family by allowing them time to evacuate, and didn't permit the little piece of wall she's painted upon, nearly leveraged over the riverbed, to be destroyed, in order to leave them a message from God. Actually, that's what happened.
How do you get to the root of what's happening to your country when all you see is what surrounds you, badness? How do you explain what's happening to it without veering off into fantasy explanations, or self-serving intellectual martyrdom or guilt-trips? How do you manage when what you see and don't see leads you to extremism, and reality smacks you in the face every once in a while? How will Don Aurelio Simon manage? How will Guatemala manage?
"Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number...
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."
My friend Anand, who once was TA for an moving class, now doing research in anthropology, responded to my email from Delhi, India:
Far away from the comforts and consumption of Delhi, where I live, a civil war rages in the forests at the heart of my country. You might have read about this. Maoists, committed to violence against the state fighting for (and sometimes against) tribals who are being dispossessed by the state, so that the minerals under their lands and their forests can be easily exploited by big industry. It is a war far removed from me but the casualties are apparent even here, in Delhi. The river that I cross twice every day, the river that was once the life of the city, runs dead and black, killed by industrial effluent, sludge and sewage. Delhi is a massive groaning city of 18 million people, many of them smugly unaware of their relative privilege. Delhi's drinking water comes not from this river that we have killed, but piped from a massive dam built in the faraway mountains, a dam which displaced a few hundred thousand people. Delhi itself is a city built upon ruins and graveyards. A city built upon its own forgetting. A city birthed by violence which has nearly obliterated the memory of what a city could be -- not at war with its own people and everything around it, not a pillager upon the land; but in harmony with itself, and with nature. Perhaps when you are here, I will show you some of those ruins. But you seem to have seen ruins enough in Guatemala.
This is not a poetic exaggeration but a sober statement of fact -- the world we live in has never been so fucked up. This has been true for every generation since the late nineteenth century, (or arguably even further, since the beginning of "modernity"). The world that we've all lived in, generation after generation, has gone catastrophically wrong in a way that could never even have been imagined previously. What can we do? It is important to do what you are doing, to truly witness what is going wrong; to be moved by what we are losing. For not enough people see it at all. People are too cocooned by false comfort, in the belief that life is the best it can be, and going to get better. To bear witness to the truth, to prove this "first world" notion (not just restricted to the first world) false seems to be the best we can do. There were lines you left out of the Dylan song, which kind of answer the how to deal with and what to do questions with which you ended your mail --
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
A cousin from Chicago responded:
this was an incredible email. i was on the train this monring on my way to work, surrounded by all the everyday downtown people, in some ac-cool train shoulded to shoulder with Iphones, blackberry clicking and red-eye newspapers, with the smell of bad cafe in the air. ( my half ass attempt at setting a backdrop)
i had the articles and pictures in my head of the storm and damage mixed in with all the people and almost pretend worried feeling, because im so distant from it and have no real way of connecting to it, honestly i was more worried about your dad and he's surgery.
i see the email come into my phone and decide to give the primo benj first eyes in the morning look at he's email.
withing 2 lines i was transporting myself into your head, i guess it was like a 3'rd person view of your week. i felt like i was in the crazy curves of the mountains and the ups and downs, bumpy roads and talking to tian, i can see exactly where he's points come from and i see myself answering alot like you. i lost track of time and space, missed my stop by 3. at one point i felt hot and humid, but i was really cold and dry. if i had better words or a more extensive vocab i would go on telling you how crazy this was, but im kinda dumb that way so. It was great writing and i truly saw it and felt it.
thanks for making that possible for me, here in rigid 1st world country Chicago.
So with that, I listened to some Bob Dylan and we made it home safely. It was raining outside from the moment I flew in, to the moment I arrived home. Damp, everything was damp outside. Without my phone with numbers, and having not told anybody in the community I was coming, I was alone, at home, but not really home. And that's how I spent my first two days home, alienated from home and thinking about how fucked up this country is and how strange it is that my family exists as if in a bubble of illusory protection, and how it is that life just goes on here, despite the rain, despite the deaths, the terrorism, despite the metal box.
And life did go on. A volcano exploded in Antigua, closing the airport and cutting off tourism for the next few days. I was thankful I had made it in. It rained water, mostly, and a little sand and ashes, and rained... and rained. After having taken my dad to have ankle surgery, he was destined to bed-ridden-ness for the next few days. Saturday May 31st rolled around, and by mid, day I could tell that something was up with the amount of rain, and judging by our experience with Hurricane Stan's rains in 2005, something bad was going to happen. Even the rain sounded different, quieter, welcomed into the ground by heavy mud. Somehow, after about three days of rain, the birds were still singing. On Saturday, it rained a total of 3 feet, (1m) of water, superseding records, and river beds.
As I sat in the car staring out at the pouring rain, I filled the tank, anticipating being stranded from the outside world of essential resources, and Bob Dylan's a Hard Rain's Gonna Fall came on. "I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin."
It was disgusting to me, in a tragi-comic way, how the best word I could find to describe the situation on Facebook that evening was, "apocalypse?"
I saw how we welcomed this tragedy, in a nearly masochistic way. We stood by the rivers, waiting, documenting, nearly hoping to see something bad happen: a bridge fall in, the river rise, a house fall in. I saw language conjure a "disaster" out of nothingness. Everyone wanted to be the first to make others know of the severity of the situation, as well as the impending disaster. I saw how lots of rain turned into "Agatha," the tropical storm. I saw how "a landslide" turned into "landslides" that "wiped out X, Y and Z' s houses" that were "gone." I saw how landslides on roads turned into "roads completely destroyed." The exaggerations, although completely false, only served as a means with which to 'make something of' the scary situation. In talking about it in such terms, one's opinion and assessment was validated, and taken more seriously, one became the hero, who told the world the truth. The impact of the exaggerated language, unfortunately, didn't rival the severity of the material reality. Those signifiers and signifieds can only be experienced in person. The exaggerated language merely served as a way of coming to terms with, or coping with, the material reality that seems completely out of our control.
That night, "bajo el rio" (the river came down), an expression used here on Atitlan, where parts of towns are built on mainly river deltas due to growth, and after rains, it's expected that a sudden rush of water make it to the village slightly afterword, usually small enough for the bed to contain. Last Saturday at around 6:30pm the boulders in the rivers thundered through mud, trees, garbage in huge overflowing rivers, shaking the near-by ground, powerful enough to smash through entirely submerged homes, fill nearby houses with thick mud and create new riverbeds that didn't exist the day before. This happened to El Jaibalito, the Mayan town I grew up next door to. Luckily, people were evacuated that evening, or took to higher ground.
Sunday, the rain's slowed down, leaving behind region-wide, thousands evacuated, hundreds left homeless, 150 dead, and lots of money to be spent on roads and 32 unusable bridges. The inflammatory language was viral, and seemed to serve a soothing function.
I would come home and do my best to update my bed-ridden father about the state of his property, town and department. I had been to one of those houses that had been submerged. It's roof was gone, walls half-bashed in, completely emptied of its insides. Next to it was Aurelio Simon, a current construction employee of my father, salvaging the electricity breaker box of his light blue house. He was quiet and serious. He told me, "mucho problema aqui" (many problems here). I think of this as an expression sometimes used by indigenous in Atitlan used to describe anything that's unwanted that has entered life. It's used for social feuds, health problems, money problems, relationships, alcoholism, crime and in this case, disaster. In what was once the interior of his house, was a bright red, blue and yellow painting of the virgin Mary. Something about that touched me, and brought unwanted moisture to my eyes and that radiating tingly feeling through my nose, stomach, and throat. Was Virgin Mary his way of warding off "problemas?" How was he supposed to explain this? How does anyone explain unwanted, unexpected, undeserved, and unforeseeable loss? I want to think that the Virgin Mary protected the family by allowing them time to evacuate, and didn't permit the little piece of wall she's painted upon, nearly leveraged over the riverbed, to be destroyed, in order to leave them a message from God. Actually, that's what happened.
How do you get to the root of what's happening to your country when all you see is what surrounds you, badness? How do you explain what's happening to it without veering off into fantasy explanations, or self-serving intellectual martyrdom or guilt-trips? How do you manage when what you see and don't see leads you to extremism, and reality smacks you in the face every once in a while? How will Don Aurelio Simon manage? How will Guatemala manage?
"Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number...
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."
My friend Anand, who once was TA for an moving class, now doing research in anthropology, responded to my email from Delhi, India:
Far away from the comforts and consumption of Delhi, where I live, a civil war rages in the forests at the heart of my country. You might have read about this. Maoists, committed to violence against the state fighting for (and sometimes against) tribals who are being dispossessed by the state, so that the minerals under their lands and their forests can be easily exploited by big industry. It is a war far removed from me but the casualties are apparent even here, in Delhi. The river that I cross twice every day, the river that was once the life of the city, runs dead and black, killed by industrial effluent, sludge and sewage. Delhi is a massive groaning city of 18 million people, many of them smugly unaware of their relative privilege. Delhi's drinking water comes not from this river that we have killed, but piped from a massive dam built in the faraway mountains, a dam which displaced a few hundred thousand people. Delhi itself is a city built upon ruins and graveyards. A city built upon its own forgetting. A city birthed by violence which has nearly obliterated the memory of what a city could be -- not at war with its own people and everything around it, not a pillager upon the land; but in harmony with itself, and with nature. Perhaps when you are here, I will show you some of those ruins. But you seem to have seen ruins enough in Guatemala.
This is not a poetic exaggeration but a sober statement of fact -- the world we live in has never been so fucked up. This has been true for every generation since the late nineteenth century, (or arguably even further, since the beginning of "modernity"). The world that we've all lived in, generation after generation, has gone catastrophically wrong in a way that could never even have been imagined previously. What can we do? It is important to do what you are doing, to truly witness what is going wrong; to be moved by what we are losing. For not enough people see it at all. People are too cocooned by false comfort, in the belief that life is the best it can be, and going to get better. To bear witness to the truth, to prove this "first world" notion (not just restricted to the first world) false seems to be the best we can do. There were lines you left out of the Dylan song, which kind of answer the how to deal with and what to do questions with which you ended your mail --
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
None of it is easy. The burden of witnessing never is. And it leaves us marked and scarred and forever changed. But I'm glad you're carrying that burden. For your corner of Guate, and for the world.A cousin from Chicago responded:
this was an incredible email. i was on the train this monring on my way to work, surrounded by all the everyday downtown people, in some ac-cool train shoulded to shoulder with Iphones, blackberry clicking and red-eye newspapers, with the smell of bad cafe in the air. ( my half ass attempt at setting a backdrop)
i had the articles and pictures in my head of the storm and damage mixed in with all the people and almost pretend worried feeling, because im so distant from it and have no real way of connecting to it, honestly i was more worried about your dad and he's surgery.
i see the email come into my phone and decide to give the primo benj first eyes in the morning look at he's email.
withing 2 lines i was transporting myself into your head, i guess it was like a 3'rd person view of your week. i felt like i was in the crazy curves of the mountains and the ups and downs, bumpy roads and talking to tian, i can see exactly where he's points come from and i see myself answering alot like you. i lost track of time and space, missed my stop by 3. at one point i felt hot and humid, but i was really cold and dry. if i had better words or a more extensive vocab i would go on telling you how crazy this was, but im kinda dumb that way so. It was great writing and i truly saw it and felt it.
thanks for making that possible for me, here in rigid 1st world country Chicago.
Friday, July 30, 2010
fotos de un lugar bien lejos
Que tal mucha, les mando un album de fotos de esta ciudad en la que estoy, Lahore, Pakistan.
Les mando todos los mejores deseos a todos, y un abrazo de aquellos que son en persona.
http://picasaweb.google.com/luisfogarty/OfMyPakistaniDaysLahore#
Cuentenme, que onda con ustedes, locos!
Benji
Les mando todos los mejores deseos a todos, y un abrazo de aquellos que son en persona.
http://picasaweb.google.com/luisfogarty/OfMyPakistaniDaysLahore#
Cuentenme, que onda con ustedes, locos!
Benji
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Cobertura en las Noticias
Me parece interesante como los diferentes noticieros cubren lo que uno mismo vive. Al leer noticias de varios lados, uno ve cuales son los mas llenos de mierda y cuales dicen la verdad. Es una de las pocas instancias en las que uno puede comparar casi objectivamente las noticias que sacan los jiganges de los medios.
Les reuni varios links para que vean lo que digo:
New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/02/world/americas/02guatemala.html?partner=rss&emc=rss
BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/latin_america/10200440.stm
Estos dos anteriores casi dicen lo mismo, con poca variacion....
Ahora:
CNN: http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/americas/06/01/guatemala.sinkhole/index.html?iref=allsearch
(in a fucking footnote!)
Sky News?: http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/World-News/Guatemala-Tropical-Storm-Agatha-Triggers-Giant-Sinkhole-That-Swallows-Building-And-House/Article/201006115641463?f=rss
Les reuni varios links para que vean lo que digo:
New York Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/02/world/americas/02guatemala.html?partner=rss&emc=rss
BBC: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/world/latin_america/10200440.stm
Estos dos anteriores casi dicen lo mismo, con poca variacion....
Ahora:
CNN: http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/americas/06/01/guatemala.sinkhole/index.html?iref=allsearch
(in a fucking footnote!)
Sky News?: http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/World-News/Guatemala-Tropical-Storm-Agatha-Triggers-Giant-Sinkhole-That-Swallows-Building-And-House/Article/201006115641463?f=rss
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Agatha, Volcanes y Pana.
Hola mucha,
Les escribo viendo por la ventana una lluvia fuerte que me recuerda mucho a Stan.
Llegue a guate hace dos dias. Desde el aeropuerto hasta Pana estuvo lluvioso. Ha llovido bastante en las ultimas semanas, asique las tierras estan ya muy bien regadas por los dioses. Se ha pronosticado que seguira lloviendo hasta el Lunes o Martes siguientes. Segun la vecina, Dona Mary, quien me acaba de llamar totalmente friqueada, el puente cerca de San Andres se va ir y los bomberos le han dicho que estan evacuando a Patanatic y que partes de pana corren peligro. No he oido nada respecto al gran pedazo de montana floja. Espero mandar esto antes de que se vaya la luz, que ya esta parpadeando por aqui. La tormenta afuera de las costas se acaba de crear, se llama Agatha. Viene hacia las costas y solo alli haban vientos fuertes. Por aca solo lluvia.
Lo que podemos esperar es que seguramente no habra paso dentro de poco tiempo, y si se lavan algunos puentes, tomara unos 5-10 dias para que se rahabilite. Estoy a punto de salir a llenar los autos con gasolina, y apuesto a que se va a cancelar la tercera noche de la obra, que esta sucediendo en el terreno de Jan y Sid, abajo del puente amarillo.
Los vuelos ya no entran ni salen de guate por Pacaya. La Prensa dice que hasta el Domingo en la tarde, pero por la tormenta Agatha no se sabe. Ojala podas entrar Dani, aqui te espero yo con un te.
No se como cantan los pajaros aun, deberian estar mojados. Pues todo el amor hacia ustedes que estan lejos. No es cosa de tener miedo, sino de saber lo que esta pasando y anticipar los dias que vienen.
Un abrazo bien fuerte a todos y a todas,
Benji
Les escribo viendo por la ventana una lluvia fuerte que me recuerda mucho a Stan.
Llegue a guate hace dos dias. Desde el aeropuerto hasta Pana estuvo lluvioso. Ha llovido bastante en las ultimas semanas, asique las tierras estan ya muy bien regadas por los dioses. Se ha pronosticado que seguira lloviendo hasta el Lunes o Martes siguientes. Segun la vecina, Dona Mary, quien me acaba de llamar totalmente friqueada, el puente cerca de San Andres se va ir y los bomberos le han dicho que estan evacuando a Patanatic y que partes de pana corren peligro. No he oido nada respecto al gran pedazo de montana floja. Espero mandar esto antes de que se vaya la luz, que ya esta parpadeando por aqui. La tormenta afuera de las costas se acaba de crear, se llama Agatha. Viene hacia las costas y solo alli haban vientos fuertes. Por aca solo lluvia.
Lo que podemos esperar es que seguramente no habra paso dentro de poco tiempo, y si se lavan algunos puentes, tomara unos 5-10 dias para que se rahabilite. Estoy a punto de salir a llenar los autos con gasolina, y apuesto a que se va a cancelar la tercera noche de la obra, que esta sucediendo en el terreno de Jan y Sid, abajo del puente amarillo.
Los vuelos ya no entran ni salen de guate por Pacaya. La Prensa dice que hasta el Domingo en la tarde, pero por la tormenta Agatha no se sabe. Ojala podas entrar Dani, aqui te espero yo con un te.
No se como cantan los pajaros aun, deberian estar mojados. Pues todo el amor hacia ustedes que estan lejos. No es cosa de tener miedo, sino de saber lo que esta pasando y anticipar los dias que vienen.
Un abrazo bien fuerte a todos y a todas,
Benji
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