Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth

By Taylor Dibbert

Shortly after graduating college, Taylor Dibbert began his career as a Peace Corps volunteer. Dibbert spent two years in Guatemala’s Western Highlands, living and working in the indigenous village of Nebaj – a place still emerging from the shadows of a bloody civil war and steeped in history.

Fiesta of Sunset speaks frankly about Dibbert’s Peace Corps experience – from witnessing armed robbery and struggling with gastrointestinal disease to deep personal reflection and considered social commentary. This is a story that embraces adventure, candor and humility.

Some of the mysterious and romantic stereotypes of the Peace Corps are set to rest in this engaging memoir. The book also provides a closer look into a war-torn nation still struggling with poverty, corruption and inequality. 

Ultimately, the Peace Corps is about empowerment – helping the world’s poor help themselves and trying to alleviate global poverty. But there's something more that JFK left out of his groundbreaking Peace Corps speech. Personal growth lies at the heart of the volunteer experience. This uniquely compelling book reminds us that the organization’s mission is more relevant than ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450272230

Taylor Dibbert

Taylor Dibbert has worked for nongovernmental organizations in several continents. Over the years, his writing and journalism have appeared in a wide range of outlets, including The Wall Street Journal, Forbes, Foreign Affairs, Foreign Policy, World Politics Review and HuffPost.

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Copyright © 2010 by Taylor Dibbert

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

A portion of this work was previously published in Slow Trains Literary Journal.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7222-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7224-7 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7223-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010916859

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/29/2011

This book is lovingly dedicated to my grandmother,

Ann Dibbert.

Contents

Prologue

Part I

One: Prior to Departure

Two: In Country

Three: Peace Corps Training

Four: Arrival in Nebaj

Five: Water Engineering

Part II

Six: Reconnect

Seven: Check Your Head

Eight: The Road to Nowhere

Nine: Visiban, Salquil, Quiché, and Quejchip

Ten: Unconquered

Eleven: Consolidation Sensation

Twelve: Highway Robbery

Part III

Thirteen: A Return to the Motherland

Fourteen: Army Ranger

Fifteen: Xepiun, Baztaja, Xebe, and Vicalamá

Sixteen: Fiesta of Sunset

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Prologue

My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see. That—and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm—all you demand—and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask.

—Joseph Conrad

I grew up in the Park Cities, a wealthy Dallas neighborhood often disparagingly referred to as the Bubble. Lots in the Bubble routinely sell for over one million dollars. Just the lot. The most common challenges faced by the police are underage drinking and speeding violations, and the schools are outstanding. In fact, Highland Park High School is one of the most prestigious public high schools in the country. I can say without hesitation that I received an excellent education and feel very blessed.

There is, however, a downside to growing up in the Bubble: I experienced little intellectual diversity and even less racial or cultural diversity. I learned more about the world elsewhere. To begin with, I grew up in a family of readers and a house full of books, thousands of them. And as a family, we traveled a lot, in the United States and overseas.

My parents are not globe-trotters, far from it. But they wanted me and my younger brother to see the world. They wanted us to understand the joy of learning about other cultures. They wanted to make sure we understood that Dallas Cowboys football, Texas barbecue, and country music were not the only things that mattered. And so I grew up reading, traveling, and exploring the world. And I learned to love the adventure of it all.

As an undergraduate at the University of Georgia, I began my own travels—first throughout the South, primarily during football season. I visited places like Knoxville, Baton Rouge, Tuscaloosa, Talladega, Auburn, Charlottesville, and a bunch of small towns in Georgia.

I also studied abroad, in Argentina, Austria, and Spain, stopping in many other countries along the way. I loved meeting new people and learning about different cultures; I loved learning about all kinds of things. And I realized that traveling and reading were the two best ways for me to learn. I began to read voraciously in college and have never stopped: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dostoyevsky, Conrad, Coetzee, and Hesse are some of my favorites. I read books on history, current affairs, philosophy, and travel. And of course, my education would have been incomplete without the Economist and the Financial Times, the world’s two greatest newspapers. Yes, the Economist still considers itself a newspaper, not a magazine.

As in high school, my grades in college were mediocre. I graduated with a 2.94 GPA, the result of too many late nights in bars and not enough time in the library. I rarely went to class during my first three years in Athens, an obvious mistake. During my senior year, I finally decided to apply myself and it paid off. I even made a 4.0 my last semester. And so I started to think about my future. What would I do with a political science degree from the University of Georgia? Many political-science majors were off to law school in the fall, which never appealed to me. I always thought law school would be three years of boredom followed by a lifetime of boredom.

What else? I needed something different, something more peculiar, something more distinctive. I needed something that I really cared about. In the fall of 2004, after my Contemporary Political Thought class, I found my answer on a bulletin board in Terrell Hall. Life is calling. How far will you go? I saw a man—maybe it was a boy—standing on a dock, about to jump off. The sun was setting behind him. Then I noticed a circular red, white, and blue logo. And it dawned on me. That’s the American flag. It was an ad for the Peace Corps. And I said to myself, Why not?

Applying to the Peace Corps is a long, tedious process. For me, that process began in the spring of 2004. In January of 2006, I received my official invitation package. The Peace Corps will not tell a Prospective Peace Corps volunteer (PCV) the country he has been invited to over the phone. The prospective do-gooder must wait for a letter in the mail. The applicant can always decline the invitation, but you never know if or when you’ll be sent another. I had already decided that I would accept an invitation to any country as long as it was Spanish-speaking, although I was hoping for Peru or Ecuador. I have always been fascinated by the political, economic, and cultural history of those two countries.

My acceptance package was supposed to arrive around Christmas. At the time, I was in Italy with my family. During those two weeks in Italy, I never slept well, and I barely even remember what I did. I wanted to know. I needed to know. Where would I be spending the next twenty-seven months of my life? What type of job would I have? Would I like the work? Would I get homesick? Would I be able to make friends? Would I regret the decision?

When we returned to Dallas, I raced to the post office to pick up our mail. My official Peace Corps package had arrived. I waited until I was home to open it. I was going to Guatemala. I would start in May. I would be one of fifteen new Appropriate Technology Peace Corps volunteers. Some of the technologies we might build included rainwater catchment tanks, solar showers, stoves, water systems, and rope pumps. The Peace Corps said they couldn’t exactly guarantee what I would be doing. The Peace Corps said I would spend my first three months in training and live with a host family. After two months in country, I would learn where I would be spending my next two years. The documents I received were full of ambiguity. I hardly understood my job assignment, but I accepted without hesitation. With a sense of pragmatic altruism, guarded optimism, humanitarian resolve, anxiety, fear, and a bit of courage, I decided to join the Peace Corps. Within a few months, I would call Guatemala my home.

This book is a chronicle of the twenty-seven months I spent in Guatemala, from May 2006 to August 2008. It has been difficult for me to write. I have always felt ambivalent about putting my thoughts and feelings into words. I have never wanted to share my imperfections with the world. I assumed that no one would understand me. That changed in Guatemala. I left the Peace Corps feeling no less flawed, but I no longer care. The twenty-nine other people in my training group and one shrewd Englishman showed me that I had nothing to fear, because I was not alone. They were a special group; they gave me the inspiration to finish my twenty-seven months of service. For that I will forever be grateful. This book is as much theirs as it is mine.

Part I

One: Prior to Departure

If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.

—Henry David Thoreau

April 2006: Dallas

My departure is less than two weeks away, and I’m ready to begin the journey. There will be two days of staging in DC, and then I’m off to Guatemala for twenty-seven months. Right now I’m trying to get my mental house in order. From my previous journeys, I’ve learned that this is perhaps the most crucial component of successfully living and traveling abroad. Without some semblance of inner peace, I’ll never turn a foreign land into my home. At this point, I think the adventure will be much more intellectual and spiritual than physical. To clarify: I have no doubt that the work will be physically challenging. I only mean to say that the greatest challenges and more significant personal growth will come from within.

I hope to write frequently while I’m in Guatemala. I believe books are such a personal thing. And the writing of those books is infinitely more personal. It’s crazy to think that the vast majority of people who consume books and literature have never and will never meet those men and women who have given us a piece of their lives. To me, publishing a memoir would be analogous to walking around naked in an airport—not something I would feel comfortable doing. Hopefully one day I will have the courage to try, though I doubt it.

Mentally and physically, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, although deciding what to take with me is tough. The Peace Corps packing list sheds no light on an already opaque situation. Choosing which books to bring feels like I’m deciding which children are allowed to enter my ark before the flood, but decisions must be made. Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, Steinbeck, and Bret Easton Ellis have all made the cut. Fortunately, my dad has helped me put tons of music on my new iPod. Most surprisingly, I discovered my favorite pair of words only yesterday: solar adaptor. I guess even electricity is a luxury in Guatemala. God, how poor are these people?

May 1, 2006

Today is the big day: I’m heading to Washington DC, for Peace Corps staging, a two-day orientation. There’s no turning back now. I’m harboring a highly diverse basket of emotions this morning. Yeah, there’s a nice mix of everything in there, which basically means that I’m nervous as hell. I slept for maybe twenty minutes last night. I stayed up and listened almost exclusively to Naive Melody by Talking Heads. I probably listened to that one song seventy times.

I can’t remember ever being this nervous. Two years of my mid-twenties will be gone when I come back! That’s enough time for me to get lost, find myself, and then lose myself all over again. Once every three months, approximately thirty new Peace Corps trainees fly to Guatemala City to begin their service. Statistically speaking, one third of those folks will quit early. Quitting early in Peace Corps vernacular is known as ETing. ET stands for Early Termination. From what I hear, people choose to leave for all kinds of reasons—with the desire to be closer to significant others in the United States and homesickness being the two most common.

Joining the Peace Corps is the greatest risk that I have ever taken. There are so many unknowns, so many concerns of mine that have not been allayed. I have no idea how this will turn out. Right now, I can’t even contemplate an Early Termination. I don’t need a shameful black mark on my life story. But what if I am wrong? What if I fail? Would I be doomed to a life of failure? If I left early, I would be embarrassed. I would feel terrible. I don’t want to go home with my tail between my legs. I don’t want to quit because I couldn’t handle it. I hope I’m tougher than that.

Will my time in the Peace Corps leave a lasting influence? Ernest Hemingway, a man for whom my respect continues undiminished, spoke of Paris being a moveable feast. The time that he spent there in the 1920s, in his mid-twenties, had a lasting effect on him—both in terms of his career as a writer and his view of the world. I turn twenty-four in December. If I am lucky, Guatemala will become my moveable feast. If I am lucky, I will encounter trials and tribulations that I will grow to embrace as significant rites of passage. If I am lucky, my time in the Peace Corps will leave an indelible mark on my life. If I am lucky, it will be an experience from which I can draw inspiration until I breathe my last breath.

May 2, 2006: Washington DC

Despite what any Peace Corps official may say, staging is a complete waste of everyone’s time. Our group filled out pointless worksheets and participated in some childish role-play activities. On one occasion, each group of five was asked to draw a picture for everyone else. This picture was supposed to convey how we were feeling about moving to Guatemala. The group next to ours drew a picture of a guy jumping off a cliff and then landing in a pile of rocks. Pure poetry! They got a big laugh, but only because that picture rang true in everyone’s heart and mind. I can’t believe I’m sitting around with twenty-nine people who have also joined the Peace Corps! None of us has any idea what we’re getting into. Of that there can be no doubt.

May 3, 2006: Dulles International Airport, Washington DC

I use the airport bathroom near our departure gate. I slowly sip from a water fountain nearby. I have not yet realized that water fountains are a luxury. I buy a copy of today’s Wall Street Journal. I flash my fancy Peace Corps passport. I board the plane. This is it. Fellow Peace Corps trainee Andrew Gall from New Hampshire sits across the aisle.

Hey fella, what are you thinking?

Not much, Taylor. I just a second ago realized that this is it. There’s no way to avoid it now. I’m going to Guatemala.

Both of us are now laughing.

You are right about that, Andrew. We should be all right though.

We’re interrupted by the voice of the pilot. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.… Once we reach a cruising altitude of thirty-six thousand feet, we’ll go ahead and turn off the seat-belt sign.… I’d also like to say that it’s an honor to have thirty members of the Peace Corps traveling with us. We certainly wish them well; we know they will be doing a lot of good work down in Guatemala.

Wow. As dumb as it sounds, his words kind of choke me up. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I hear something, a smooth crescendo. The entire plane, nearly a full house, is applauding. At that moment, I feel like I am part of something special. I feel special—regular old me. Could this really be happening?

Two: In Country

May 3, 2006

We arrive in Guatemala City and sluggishly deplane. Everyone looks exhausted, and we haven’t even done anything yet. It is hot. I’ve been in Guatemala for less than ten minutes, and I’m already sweating profusely. I use the bathroom and restively wait for my luggage like everybody else.

We’ve just been greeted by the Peace Corps country director, Cynthia Threlkeld, and the training director, Craig Badger. Now we are leaving the airport to meet the host families with whom we will live during our three months of Peace Corps training in Santa Lucía Milpas Altas, which is just outside of Antigua. Actually, Santa Lucía Milpas Altas is where the training center is, but members from my training group will live in several towns besides Santa Lucía—La Libertad, Santo Tomás, and Magdalena, all in the department of Sacatepéquez. Departments in Guatemala are similar to states in the United States, and there are twenty-two in all. I never did get to know Ms. Threlkeld; she left to pursue a job in Africa shortly after my group arrived in country. I think she was offered a Peace Corps directorship there.

An hour later, I discover that where I’ll be living is not that bad. There’s even a showerhead in the bathroom—I had been bracing myself for bucket baths during training. In my bedroom, I have an electrical outlet and a chair. I’m living like a king in this Mayan paradise. I exchange pleasantries with the host family, but it’s been a long day. I’m ready to pop a couple of Tylenol PMs and hit the sack, which is exactly what I do.

I have ambitiously planned to drink five cups of coffee before training starts tomorrow. About five years ago, I discovered that coffee is one of life’s great pleasures, and now I cannot imagine my life without it. I love the way it smells, even though the taste is never as good as the aroma. I enjoy the taste of it, sure. But it’s the caffeine that makes coffee so magical. It will course through my veins yet again tomorrow. I have been separated from my French press for only three days, and I am starting to feel uneasy. I didn’t bring