From Philip’s personal Journal… dated 6-04-2005

In Chocola, the sky gets light long before the sun first peeks over the tall volcanoes that lie to the east. The light is accompanied by a cacophony of roosters, ‘chicken busses, dogs, cows, firecrackers, and it is barely 4 am. Noise was invented here. In fact I�m pretty sure a new noise or two was invented just last night. It is hard to believe that the town had only just settled in a few hours earlier after a night lamenting the last minute defeat of the Guatemalan futbol team. Bruised national pride notwithstanding, when the sun comes up these people go to work.

I gave up on trying to sleep in over a week ago, so rather than stare at the large red spider on the ceiling I swing my feet off the cot, put on my sandals and decide to take a few early morning photos of town. By now everyone either recognizes me or ignores me. For the first couple of days I was worth a curious look or two but no more � I�m now as dirty and tan as the rest of them. I’ve even acquired my very own rusty machete. Still half asleep, I try to smile and join in the syncopated yet melodic chorus of �Buenos Dias�-es that the men trade as they file past one another on the one main road. I chuckle when I find the (now empty) bottle of scotch that had been passed around after the upset in front of Don Carlos’s tienda.

From Philip’s personal Journal… dated 6-04-2005

A thin black and white dog saunters into the street and reclaims the spot he probably slept in the night before. The dogs here aren�t really pets, more like friendly scavengers. They seem to run a community of their own with only a part-time affiliation to the townspeople, who do seem to take care of them if they’re hurt. I recognize the dog from a few nights before as ‘belonging’ to one of the musicians in the local marimba band. Five men altogether made up the group, four who played side-by-side on an oversized wooden marimba, and one who played drums. Their instruments were old and thrashed, contrasting sharply with the shiny new ones that appear every Friday at El Calvario. Still, the cracked, buzzing keys and split drumheads gave their music an unforgettable, raspy voice. They must have played for four hours that evening, taking turns singing, playing solos, and everyone drinking a ton of ‘Gallo’ brand beer.