A few little things

My head is fixing to bust with all the spanish I'm cramming in, so I thought I'd jot down a few of the non-language things I've been noticing but don't have room to hold on to. On the streets, you can get all kinds of tasty treats- corn on a stick, slathered with mayo and spices; tacos; hot dogs (these seem to be quite popular). If you get juice or cola, it comes in a plastic bag, with a straw, and you clutch it around the opening of the baggie. Actually, everything comes in a baggie- fresh fruit cut up into bite size pieces; nuts; popped corn; and all kinds of unidentified little tidbits in unidentified sauces (have no fear, I will identify the unidentified presently (although our host mother keeps us so stuffed morning til night that we don't have much room for trying street food)). All the indigenous Maya women wear these crazy colorful outfits, intricately embroidered in the brightest colors with amazing patterns, and carry wicked heavy-looking stuff in giant baskets on their heads, and they're everywhere. Like, it's not that you only see them up in the mountains, but all over town, too. Probably a third or a half of the women wear these outfits. Dizzying. Along the highways, the tire shops (and there are lots of tire shops, as well as bloquerias- business that sell concrete blocks) all have a tire lying down, with another standing up in its prostrate brother, with white painted letters that say "tire shop" in spanish. I think. You can smoke in the McDonald's, and check your email (no beer, though (we didn't go, but Mariam said I could if they had beer on the menu, so we checked)). Internet costs 4Q/hour (free at the school, where I am now), and there are 7.5Q/dollar. To have all our laundry washed, dried and folded, same day, costs 28Q. 1Q for a slice of watermelon. Mmm, watermelon. And plantains. For the record, plantains are fucking awesome. Apparently, you can't really eat them raw, so they have to be fried in butter.
One last little story. This weekend we went to the coast with our host family, who is amazing if I haven't mentioned it before. The grandpa has this hacienda-type place on the coast, which really just means, down south where it's wicked hot and there are mosquitos (coast and beach mean two different things- you can't see the water from the coast). I played in the pool with Javier for a couple of hours under the sun, which washed all my sunscreen off so I burned the holy hell out of my shoulders. Then, just as the sun was reaching its zenith, all the guys gathered for a soccer rematch. Soccer is like a religion (if you don't speak spanish, you can't tell the difference between a match and a sermon on the radio), so all these guys are playing their hearts out. I swat out, like, a gallon of fluid. Afterwards, they just all go and sit around the pool. Nobody drinks anything. I am dying of thirst, but I had already drank the one little thermos of agua pura that we brought down the day before, for an entire extended family reunion, filled with soccer and other dessicating activities. So I was left with the horrifying decision of whether to live with the stars swimming in front of my eyes from dehydration, or to drink from the tap. I don't know if you've been down here, but it is pounded in from day one not to drink from the tap. It's like a mantra that constantly plays past on that screen in your brain. But I was dying. I filled a glass, smelled it, emptied it. Filled it again. I would have been salivating if I had any saliva left, but I'm well past the point of sweating, or salivating, or carrying out the fluid-dependent functions of my cell organelles. I'm just a big, panting, beet-red blob of thirst. Even so, I hesitate, the glass trembling in my hand, against the power of the anti-tap mantra. There is a microwave next to the sink. I thrust the glass of water into the microwave, and set it for- what should I set it for? A minute, and it will be undrinkable from the heat, but...- twenty seconds, and punch the "incipio" button. With the glass slowly rotating, the exhaust from the microwave vent surprisingly cool, I force myself not to think of all the amoebic yeasty beasties that could easily survive twenty seconds of radiation. Ding! In one motion I swipe the glass out and swallow down the tepid water in one gulp. By no means does it slake my thirst, but at least it keeps me alive. Although I think I can already feel the cholera multiplying in my bowels. I'll let you know how it turns out.