I am sitting on Guatemala´s Caribbean Coast after bathing body and soul in the sacred convergence of fresh water and sea. They call her ¨The Sweet River.¨ So sweet she is that the slurping mud riverbottom carresses my feet with warmth and kindness. The water is the perfect salinity for flushing out nasal passages. The salinity of human tears. Sacred human tears that wash into the river and out to the sea. Rachel and I sit, here, at La Buga, the mouth of the river, at the fingertips of the Sea, and let the waves wash over our sunkissed legs like young playmates in a tidal pool of pure afternoon love.
We fill our hands with purple seashells and begin to pulse with the rhythm of the waves. Chhhtt. Chhhtt. Chhhtt. Our hands our instruments, salt shakers of the sea. ¨You know there is someone there, across the ocean, doing the same thing we are doing right now,¨I say to Rachel through a quiet smile. "On the West African Coast. On the Southern Tip" We speak the names aloud. "On the banks of the Ganga. On the Florida Coast. In Cuba. In Long Beach. Outer Banks, North Carolina. Stormy Oregon Coast. Nova Scotia. Even in Rainy England." We send salutations to lovers all over the world as we feel the weight of the shells in our hands. Shake. And, in a crescendo of thanks -- gratitude for fresh coconuts and machetes, for sacred convergences and purple seashells, for the way the wind and water connect us all in an intimate Union through salt, seeds, smiles, tears and tangled-hair -- in a crescendo of thanks, we release the shells back to Mother Ocean and thank her for allowing us to feel sweet and beautiful in her stained-glass waters.
He left the scene of our Sweet River Gratitude-swimming with no words spoken. Two young women kissing the sand and seashells with open pores and tangled blond curls. I am not sure he knows how to handle two soul-searchers who respect life enough not to get drunk in the middle of the day. Salt water and river mud offer clean, sweet intoxication without heavy eyes, clumsy feet and stumbling tongue. We did not buy him a drink. We did not buy him a smoke. We were not reach to numb the afternoon with a cold, glass bottle. Perhaps he left disappointed.
We see him again, Quioshi, in the evening. His friend approaches us and hands us two fliers advertising a restaurant down the road, "Free mojitos if you eat dinner here. Excellent food." He smiles. He kisses us on the cheek. He pretends he knows everything about us after sniffing out our white skin and light eyes on the evening breeze. I take the objectification light-heartedly. Why should I expect to by any more than a young, attractive White woman in the eyes of this boy who earns his living by slobbering all over tourists? I am getting ahead of myself. My bias is coming out. My disdain for this young man who treats me as a money-pot, sex-toy and expects me to let him treat me this way because the culture permits it. But ask any Garífuna woman in town: this coastal culture does not permit such disrespect. Why does it bother me so? Because he treats me like I am a stupid woman who will give sex and a free drink to any sweaty local who takes my arm and leads me to the hippest tourist joint. This is what Rasputin wants. I think they are brothers. Quioshi and Rasputin. This is why he fixes our table and tries to massage my sunburned shoulders in between his crude jokes. This is why he pretends he knows everything about me. I feel the tension start to rise in me as he speaks to all the world with proud disrespect. He grows angry that we have not offered him a drink. He grows angry that I do not let him touch me as he pleases. He grows angry that I am not just a "stupid American." I understand why he is spiteful. To him, tonight, I am "Them"-- Rich, Privileged, White Tourist who both gives him a job and makes him irate with anger, centuries deep. The waitress comes and she yells at us. She yells at us because the night is full of misunderstanding and her tourist-trap dogs have not done a good job in inticing us to spend a bundle of money on a fancy dinner. She yells at us because her under-the-table workers slander her with insults as they demand alcoholic compensation. How did we find ourselves here? He latched onto us at the dock. Just recently off the boat. When I ask him a question about Hindu culture here, he responds with spite -- spitting accusations of my ignorance. Maybe I am clueless about the deep-rooted cultural racism, tension, history of coinhabitance of Garífuna, White, Black, Ladino, Indian peoples. This is why I ask the question. Because I would like to know more. I would like to listen to the stories. Because there is more here that interests me aside from discotechs and alcoholic overdoses. I change my tone of voice. "You know, we Americans are just stupid. Forget my question." He asks for a sip of my mojito. "You can have it," I say, feeling dirty, disrupted, distant from the rum filled cup. He gets what he wants in the end. We are left to try and sort through the complicated, heavy weave of racism, history, resentment and jealousy we have become a part of this evening. I cannot pretend to understand the depth of it. I cannot pretend to understand the historical roots of the insults Quioshi fires at the Garífuna passersby. I do not know why it pains him that his father is Indian. Yet, I cannot sit idly while someone shoots his slandering arrows at me in a strange combination of kisses and curses and demands for alcohol. Just as I cannot pretend to know anything about him, he cannot pretend he knows anything about me. But he does. This is where it begins. Tonight, in his eyes, I am a White Sac of Ungrateful Shit Money. His eyes are angry to discover that I don´t carry enough cash to buy him a drink. We walk on
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Epifania
Epiphany is her name. The beautiful African woman whose voluptuous figure, silver jewelry and singing smile disguise the five children she has at home. She is young looking. Turning 29 in just a few days. Her strong, naked thighs greet the night air, comfortably showing themselves below a tiny cut of denim shorts. ¨You know how to dance,¨she says, inviting me into her rhythm and her curves. We are dancing. She is following my movements -- wanting to make the scene beautiful and harmonious. Black and white bodies carressing the night.
I am reminded of a halloween party a few years back when a young, rhythmic, ebony-skinned student caugth my vibration and focused her energy on complementing my movements, enhancing my curves and expressions. I watched her move through the dance floor, offering herself to all of the spiraling bodies, no matter how awkward, off-beat, beautiful, ugly, curvy, boney, drunk, sober. She floated, flowed like a breeze through the dancefloor and beautified the space with her generosity, her smile, her love of making other people feel beautiful and free. Epifania reminds me of this night when she welcomes me into her rhythm. She, with her sensuous curves and high heels, me with my petite musculature and sneakers. We dance. We sing. We admire each other´s jewelry. I silently thank her for dissolving my white skin with her kindness. Here I am, laughing with Livingston locals, happily sitting beside a delightful dirty-old-man whose underbite-smile fills my soul with warm fuzzies and whose shameless story of his sickness, his hernia, makes me both laugh and cry. He pulls down his trousers to show me his hernia. There, in the middle of the bar. And that´s okay. Because he is the loveable, dirty-old-man who has 26 grandchildren and enjoys Saturday night drinks with his family.
I am reminded of a halloween party a few years back when a young, rhythmic, ebony-skinned student caugth my vibration and focused her energy on complementing my movements, enhancing my curves and expressions. I watched her move through the dance floor, offering herself to all of the spiraling bodies, no matter how awkward, off-beat, beautiful, ugly, curvy, boney, drunk, sober. She floated, flowed like a breeze through the dancefloor and beautified the space with her generosity, her smile, her love of making other people feel beautiful and free. Epifania reminds me of this night when she welcomes me into her rhythm. She, with her sensuous curves and high heels, me with my petite musculature and sneakers. We dance. We sing. We admire each other´s jewelry. I silently thank her for dissolving my white skin with her kindness. Here I am, laughing with Livingston locals, happily sitting beside a delightful dirty-old-man whose underbite-smile fills my soul with warm fuzzies and whose shameless story of his sickness, his hernia, makes me both laugh and cry. He pulls down his trousers to show me his hernia. There, in the middle of the bar. And that´s okay. Because he is the loveable, dirty-old-man who has 26 grandchildren and enjoys Saturday night drinks with his family.
Bubbles from the Coconut Sea
I wrote the Compassion post a few days back, hesitating to publish it because an ineptitude to express what is burning in my soul. The Unbearable Lightness of Being on the sweaty busride, by the pulsing sea, sailing through wavelengths of different colors, shapes, textures and frequencies, I am inundated with emotion. Swimming in a sea of moments, I grow gills so that I can keep breathing. A fish who is meeting characters that blow my mind and send me topsy-turvy with love, hope, tear-inducing joy and occassional aversion. Poetry falls onto the page as I blow life-support bubbles to keep from drowning. How to write these moments? Bubbles start to rise as I breathe the coconut sea.
Forty pages of journaling. Where do I begin? When I find myself in this predicament, I always choose to begin with Now. Setting the scene. Morning in Livingston, Guatemala. I open my journal to last night´s scribbling passion:
Casi no puedo escribir por el amor que me siento.
Por la esperanza. Por la buena fortuna.
(A colored-pencil sketch of a boat named ESPERANZA,
an oar, and a coconut tree with gigantic seaside roots.)
While walking the beach, we pass a boat name ESPERANZA. "Hope." The sun sets over the coconut tree while the sea crashes hot-blooded into the shore. The winds of change are blowing. Gypsy wanderers are on a mission to listen. To hear the sacred spirits of this place and taste the wisdom. We walk quickly because we are inspired. We walk quickly because we are not tangled up in words. We prefer silence today. The Universe is overwhelming us in a cascading song of beauty. Inundation. We swim in a Wonderland sea: green snakes dancing, two meters long; shell-inhabiting mollusks moving slowly, delicately, artfully over the slippery rocks of the sacred waterfalls; exquisite vegetables dressed in orange and red and purple and green, beautifying the world and nourishing our tye-dye hands, our bodies, our souls; purifying, crystal water rushing over our bodies as we surrender to the orchestral energy of Los Siete Altares -- seven waterfalls sacred to the Garífuna people.
Growing silent in our blood, moving like graceful, patient, purposeful cats, we stretch our limbs over the rocks, feel the earth under our bare toes and marvel at the way our nerves befriend the textures of infinity. On our eyelids, beneath our belly-buttons, in the drops of water that sneak between our breasts. I love how silent we are! I love how we are silent while the world around us speaks. Loudly. The cascading water; the screaming cicadas; the subtle, salty breeze that reminds us how close we are to Mother Ocean. I listen. I surrender. I let go. I fold my spine over the rock, smoothed by centuries of life, centuries of flow. I let my hair loose so that it can float like a mermaid´s and play tag with the afternoon sunlight that echoes in the forest canopy. I dissolve. I laugh as my hands evaporate. I watch the vapor rise to the green tree-tops and merge with the sunlit echo. I listen to the echo´s laughter as it runs away with my lips, my belly, my submerged earlobe. I am part of this place. I am part of the earth. I am part of all that is. I dissolve. Smiling. My heart bubbles up and kisses driftwood gypsies as they travel on. Anima! Suerte! Buen Camino!
Forty pages of journaling. Where do I begin? When I find myself in this predicament, I always choose to begin with Now. Setting the scene. Morning in Livingston, Guatemala. I open my journal to last night´s scribbling passion:
Casi no puedo escribir por el amor que me siento.
Por la esperanza. Por la buena fortuna.
(A colored-pencil sketch of a boat named ESPERANZA,
an oar, and a coconut tree with gigantic seaside roots.)
While walking the beach, we pass a boat name ESPERANZA. "Hope." The sun sets over the coconut tree while the sea crashes hot-blooded into the shore. The winds of change are blowing. Gypsy wanderers are on a mission to listen. To hear the sacred spirits of this place and taste the wisdom. We walk quickly because we are inspired. We walk quickly because we are not tangled up in words. We prefer silence today. The Universe is overwhelming us in a cascading song of beauty. Inundation. We swim in a Wonderland sea: green snakes dancing, two meters long; shell-inhabiting mollusks moving slowly, delicately, artfully over the slippery rocks of the sacred waterfalls; exquisite vegetables dressed in orange and red and purple and green, beautifying the world and nourishing our tye-dye hands, our bodies, our souls; purifying, crystal water rushing over our bodies as we surrender to the orchestral energy of Los Siete Altares -- seven waterfalls sacred to the Garífuna people.
Growing silent in our blood, moving like graceful, patient, purposeful cats, we stretch our limbs over the rocks, feel the earth under our bare toes and marvel at the way our nerves befriend the textures of infinity. On our eyelids, beneath our belly-buttons, in the drops of water that sneak between our breasts. I love how silent we are! I love how we are silent while the world around us speaks. Loudly. The cascading water; the screaming cicadas; the subtle, salty breeze that reminds us how close we are to Mother Ocean. I listen. I surrender. I let go. I fold my spine over the rock, smoothed by centuries of life, centuries of flow. I let my hair loose so that it can float like a mermaid´s and play tag with the afternoon sunlight that echoes in the forest canopy. I dissolve. I laugh as my hands evaporate. I watch the vapor rise to the green tree-tops and merge with the sunlit echo. I listen to the echo´s laughter as it runs away with my lips, my belly, my submerged earlobe. I am part of this place. I am part of the earth. I am part of all that is. I dissolve. Smiling. My heart bubbles up and kisses driftwood gypsies as they travel on. Anima! Suerte! Buen Camino!
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Weight of Compassion
"On Saturday and Sunday he felt the sweet lightness of being rise up to him out of the depths of the future. On Monday, he was hit by a weight the likes of which he had never known. The tons of steel of the Russian tanks were nothing compared with it. For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one´s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.¨ - Milan Kundera
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Imagine If You Had to Hide Your Footprints
In the foothills of the Cuchumatanes Mountains rests the bustling town of Nebaj. A town where car horns sound like fire alarms at 430 in the morning and young voices laugh at the dream-sleepers who cannot figure out just what is going on. We are in the heart of the Western Highlands, home to the Ixil-speaking people, location of heavy fighting during the civil w ar, destroyed by black hearts and bullets during the 1970s and 80s. According to Moon Handbook to Guatemala , 25,000 Ixil were murdered or displaced during these years.
Rachel and I walk up the muddy road that leads out of town into the evergreens and clouds. We pass the cemetery where loved ones pay their respects in flowers and pigs feed on roadside weeds. To the left, two giggling boys eye these two light-eyed, light-skinned women; to the right, a monument. ¨Fueron hombres, mujeres, niños.¨ ¨They were men, women, children.¨ Two columns of names. Los desaparicidos. The disappeared. Juana Rivera. She whispers to me through the stone. ¨I am cold.¨ She was 14, I think. 14 years old with laughter as joyful as castanets, as fresh as a marigold in the morning dew. As I walk through the mountainside, I hear her breathing beside me. I can feel her pulse without touching her skin. She is running. She is barefoot, running fast. We pass a rushing roadside stream. A mountain drainage winding its way through forest, cornfield , eroded path and down to town. This poem comes to me -- bubbling up. Juana speaks through me:
Imagine if you had to hide your footprints.
Imagine if you had to hide your footrprints in the riverbed.
In the riverbed because they were following you.
Following you with sharp teeth and remorseless hearts.
With sharp teeth and remorseless hearts looking for you.
Looking for your footprints.
We walk on. Up the mountainside. Passing men, women and children carrying firewood. Large bundles. They bend over so their torso is nearly parallel to the ground and then support the weight of th ewood with their backs. A strap taut across their forehead holds the bundle in place. Slip-slide. Mudslide territory. One man has three horses. They are better equipped to carry heavy loads of firewood. They stop to munch on roadside greens. Slip-slide.
After a winding, muddy mountainside adventure, we come to the outskirts of Acul, a small town originally established as one of the ¨model villages¨under the rule of Efrain Rios Montt. The mainstreet of the town is eerie. A wide street separated by an unkempt median of zig-zagging grass with a strange barbed-wire decoration running all the way through. Where is everyone? There are children running about. They lighten the strange air of Absence. Especially a sweet-faced toddler who smiles at us and calls out, ¨Hola!¨ over and over again until we are completely out of sight. I honor how shameless children are. They are not afraid to stare. Not afraid to smile at these strangers and chase us down with a combination of delight and curiosity. It feels more comfortable to be acknowledged as ¨other¨than it does to be ignored all together. Wouldn´t I ask the same question. What are these two young gringos doing so far up in the mountains. But then again ...
¨Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all people cry, laugh, eat, worry and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ -- Maya Angelou
We kick the mud off our shoes and step into Pablo´s . A small cement building painted purple, yellow and green. Washers and dryers, a topographic map of the area, two wooden chairs, a black and white list of Pablo´s services-- horseback rides, day hikes, overnight hikes, waterfall excursions. ¨Buenas tardes,¨we call to the back door where we hear soft, familial voices. ¨Buenas tardes,¨answers a beautiful young woman, her five year-old daughter peeking out from behind her skirt. Manuela. ¨If we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ We smile at each other. Chat. Share the joy of being women. She tells us of the other foreign sisters who have stayed in Nebaj and says she misses them when they are gone. ¨How long will you stay?¨There is a part of me that wants to say, ¨Long enough to become friends, neighbors, share laughter.¨ ¨A couple of days,¨I say in the end. Manuela is generous with the information she offers us on the camino toward Acul. She does not mind that we will no give our funds to her guide service. She wants to help us on our way. We bathe in kindness. Raindrops running down our cheeks and into our fertile hearts. Flowers bloom. Thank you, Manuela. Thank you, sister. Suerte.
Rachel and I walk up the muddy road that leads out of town into the evergreens and clouds. We pass the cemetery where loved ones pay their respects in flowers and pigs feed on roadside weeds. To the left, two giggling boys eye these two light-eyed, light-skinned women; to the right, a monument. ¨Fueron hombres, mujeres, niños.¨ ¨They were men, women, children.¨ Two columns of names. Los desaparicidos. The disappeared. Juana Rivera. She whispers to me through the stone. ¨I am cold.¨ She was 14, I think. 14 years old with laughter as joyful as castanets, as fresh as a marigold in the morning dew. As I walk through the mountainside, I hear her breathing beside me. I can feel her pulse without touching her skin. She is running. She is barefoot, running fast. We pass a rushing roadside stream. A mountain drainage winding its way through forest, cornfield , eroded path and down to town. This poem comes to me -- bubbling up. Juana speaks through me:
Imagine if you had to hide your footprints.
Imagine if you had to hide your footrprints in the riverbed.
In the riverbed because they were following you.
Following you with sharp teeth and remorseless hearts.
With sharp teeth and remorseless hearts looking for you.
Looking for your footprints.
We walk on. Up the mountainside. Passing men, women and children carrying firewood. Large bundles. They bend over so their torso is nearly parallel to the ground and then support the weight of th ewood with their backs. A strap taut across their forehead holds the bundle in place. Slip-slide. Mudslide territory. One man has three horses. They are better equipped to carry heavy loads of firewood. They stop to munch on roadside greens. Slip-slide.
After a winding, muddy mountainside adventure, we come to the outskirts of Acul, a small town originally established as one of the ¨model villages¨under the rule of Efrain Rios Montt. The mainstreet of the town is eerie. A wide street separated by an unkempt median of zig-zagging grass with a strange barbed-wire decoration running all the way through. Where is everyone? There are children running about. They lighten the strange air of Absence. Especially a sweet-faced toddler who smiles at us and calls out, ¨Hola!¨ over and over again until we are completely out of sight. I honor how shameless children are. They are not afraid to stare. Not afraid to smile at these strangers and chase us down with a combination of delight and curiosity. It feels more comfortable to be acknowledged as ¨other¨than it does to be ignored all together. Wouldn´t I ask the same question. What are these two young gringos doing so far up in the mountains. But then again ...
¨Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all people cry, laugh, eat, worry and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ -- Maya Angelou
We kick the mud off our shoes and step into Pablo´s . A small cement building painted purple, yellow and green. Washers and dryers, a topographic map of the area, two wooden chairs, a black and white list of Pablo´s services-- horseback rides, day hikes, overnight hikes, waterfall excursions. ¨Buenas tardes,¨we call to the back door where we hear soft, familial voices. ¨Buenas tardes,¨answers a beautiful young woman, her five year-old daughter peeking out from behind her skirt. Manuela. ¨If we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.¨ We smile at each other. Chat. Share the joy of being women. She tells us of the other foreign sisters who have stayed in Nebaj and says she misses them when they are gone. ¨How long will you stay?¨There is a part of me that wants to say, ¨Long enough to become friends, neighbors, share laughter.¨ ¨A couple of days,¨I say in the end. Manuela is generous with the information she offers us on the camino toward Acul. She does not mind that we will no give our funds to her guide service. She wants to help us on our way. We bathe in kindness. Raindrops running down our cheeks and into our fertile hearts. Flowers bloom. Thank you, Manuela. Thank you, sister. Suerte.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Chichicastenango
Traveling for a few weeks with Rachel before returning to San Marcos La Laguna ...
The market of Chichicastenango begins on the steps of La Iglesia. The Catholic Church, all dressed in white, is home to Mayan rituals, Catholic prayers, ice-cream vendors, chatting gray-haired women, barefoot children selling colorful bracelets, foreign accents and cameras. Rachel and I sit on the white stone of 16th century spirits and children rush to our side. ¨Five Q (quetzales) for this beautiful change purse. The headband, it would look so nice in your hair. What is your name? Where are you from?¨ A seven-year old girl carries her sleeping infant brother, wrapped in cloth, tied to her back. He is dreaming. He is not aware of the busy world happening all around. ¨1Q for a photo.¨She has learned to make a livingthis way. Selling her barefeet, sweet face, sleeping brother to the many tourists who flood this market place.
¨This reminds me of a scene from the Bible,¨ Rachel says. ¨When Jesus walks out of the temple and the townspeople are selling their good right their on the steps. Doesn´t Jesus destroy the temple, or something to that effect?¨ ¨I am not sure,¨I admit. ¨Something like that.¨ The juxtaposition is jarring. Peaceful, white, cold-stone church. Ancient ceremony. And Chichi´s Sunday version of Capitalist economy right outside.
Commerce is overwhelming for me. ¨Stuff¨in every direction. ¨Things¨that we must carry with us, purchase. I am glad my mother is not here to witness this grand carnaval of commerce; she would be handing out bills right and left to the children who run circles around the market, pulling on your shirt-tail and climbing inside your heart. Yes. My sweet mother would be wearing two skirts, three shawls, a handful of necklaces, bracelets and carrying a bag of sewn animalitos and dolls.
Commerce on the steps of the temple. Every Sunday the same. Tourists with their Lands End hats and quick-dry clothing. Chichi natives with their most tantalizing grins. Te doy buen precio! Dios bendiga! Chichicastenango.
The market of Chichicastenango begins on the steps of La Iglesia. The Catholic Church, all dressed in white, is home to Mayan rituals, Catholic prayers, ice-cream vendors, chatting gray-haired women, barefoot children selling colorful bracelets, foreign accents and cameras. Rachel and I sit on the white stone of 16th century spirits and children rush to our side. ¨Five Q (quetzales) for this beautiful change purse. The headband, it would look so nice in your hair. What is your name? Where are you from?¨ A seven-year old girl carries her sleeping infant brother, wrapped in cloth, tied to her back. He is dreaming. He is not aware of the busy world happening all around. ¨1Q for a photo.¨She has learned to make a livingthis way. Selling her barefeet, sweet face, sleeping brother to the many tourists who flood this market place.
¨This reminds me of a scene from the Bible,¨ Rachel says. ¨When Jesus walks out of the temple and the townspeople are selling their good right their on the steps. Doesn´t Jesus destroy the temple, or something to that effect?¨ ¨I am not sure,¨I admit. ¨Something like that.¨ The juxtaposition is jarring. Peaceful, white, cold-stone church. Ancient ceremony. And Chichi´s Sunday version of Capitalist economy right outside.
Commerce is overwhelming for me. ¨Stuff¨in every direction. ¨Things¨that we must carry with us, purchase. I am glad my mother is not here to witness this grand carnaval of commerce; she would be handing out bills right and left to the children who run circles around the market, pulling on your shirt-tail and climbing inside your heart. Yes. My sweet mother would be wearing two skirts, three shawls, a handful of necklaces, bracelets and carrying a bag of sewn animalitos and dolls.
Commerce on the steps of the temple. Every Sunday the same. Tourists with their Lands End hats and quick-dry clothing. Chichi natives with their most tantalizing grins. Te doy buen precio! Dios bendiga! Chichicastenango.
Toilet-Paper Rolls
We use recycled toilet paper here. No chemicals. No dyes. No bleach. Thin brown paper that biodegrates quickly. The kind of paper that many people despise because it falls apart in your hands as you use it. We burn the waste paper. It does not take long. Overhead on the bamboo roof of the porch, toilet paper rolls turn into insects and beautify the space with their tissue wings and pipe-cleaner antennae. We recycle just about everything here. And remind the children that La Madre Tierra does not like when we use lots of electricity and batteries. Turn off the lights when you leave. Blow a kiss to Madre Tierra.
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